-NRLF 


.RICHARDS 


Bmily  and  Evelyn  Sucl 


THE  LIBRARY 

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MARIE 


By 

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280 


CONTENTS. 


CHAFTKB  PAGE 

I.  MARIE 5 

II.  "D'ARTHENAY,    TENEZ    Foi  I  " 12 

III.  ABBY  ROCK 22 

IV.  POSSESSION     .    .          30 

V.  COURTSHIP 37 

VI.  WEDLOCK 51 

VII.  LOOKING  BACK 60 

VIII.  A  FLOWER  IN  THE  SNOW 68 

IX.  MADAME 74 

X,  DE  ARTHENAY'S  VIGIL 84 

XI.  VITA  NUOVA 94 


MARIE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MARIE. 

MARIE  was  tired.  She  had  been  walking  nearly 
the  whole  day,  and  now  the  sun  was  low  in 
the  west,  and  long  level  rays  of  yellow  light  were 
spreading  over  the  country,  striking  the  windows  of 
a  farmhouse  here  and  there  into  sudden  flame,  or 
resting  more  softly  on  tree-tops  and  hanging  slopes. 
They  were  like  fiddle-bows,  Marie  thought ;  and  at  the 
tli ought  she  held  closer  something  that  she  carried  in 
her  arms,  and  murmured  over  it  a  little,  as  a  mother 
coos  over  her  baby.  It  seemed  a  long  time  since  she 
had  run  away  from  the  troupe :  she  would  forget  all 
about  them  soon,  she  thought,  and  their  ugly  faces. 
She  shivered  slightly  as  she  recalled  the  face  of  "  Le 
Boss"  as  it  was  last  bent  upon  her,  frowning  and 
dark,  and  as  ugly  as  a  hundred  devils,  she  was  quite 
sure.  Ah,  he  would  take  away  her  violin  —  Le  Boss  ! 
he  would  give  it  to  his  own  girl,  whom  she,  Marie, 
had  taught  till  she  could  play  a  very  little,  enough  to 
keep  the  birds  from  flying  away  when  they  saw  her, 


6  MARIE. 

as  they  otherwise  might ;  she  was  to  have  the  violin, 
the  Lady,  one's  own  heart  and  life,  and  Marie  was  to 
have  a  fiddle  that  he  had  picked  up  anywhere,  found 
on  an  ash-heap,  most  likely !  Ah,  and  now  he  had 
lost  the  Lady  and  Marie  too,  and  who  would  play  for 
him  this  evening,  and  draw  the  children  out  of  the 
houses  ?  he  !  let  some  one  tell  Marie  that !  It  had  not 
been  hard,  the  running  away,  for  no  one  would  ever 
have  thought  of  Marie's  daring  to  do  such  a  thing. 
She  belonged  to  Le  Boss,  as  much  as  the  tent  or  the 
ponies,  or  his  own  ugly  girl :  so  they  all  thought  in 
the  troupe,  and  so  Marie  herself  had  thought  till  that 
day ;  that  is,  she  had  not  thought  at  all.  While  she 
could  play  all  the  time,  and  had  often  quite  enough 
to  eat,  and  always  something,  a  piece  of  bread  in  the 
hand  if  no  more,  —  and  La  Patronne,  Le  Boss's  wife, 
never  too  unkind,  and  sometimes  even  giving  her  a  bit 
of  ribbon  for  the  Lady's  neck  when  there  was  to  be  a 
special  performance,  —  why,  who  would  have  thought 
of  running  away  ?  she  had  been  with  them  so  long, 
those  others,  and  that  time  in  France  was  so  long  ago, 
— hundreds  of  years  ago  ! 

So  no  one  had  thought  of  noticing  when  she  dropped 
behind  to  tune  her  violin  and  practise  by  herself ;  it 
was  a  thing  she  did  every  day,  they  all  knew,  for  she 
could  not  practise  when  the  children  pulled  her  gown 
all  the  time,  and  wanted  to  dance.  She  had  chosen 
the  place  well,  having  been  on  the  lookout  for  it  all 
day,  ever  since  Le  Boss  told  her  what  he  meant  to  do, 


MARIE.  7 

—  that  infamy  which  the  good  God  would  never  have 
allowed,  if  He  had  not  heen  perhaps  tired  with  the 
many  infamies  of  Le  Boss,  and  forgotten  to  notice  this 
one.  She  had  chosen  the  place  well !  A  little  wood 
dipped  down  to  the  right,  with  a  brook  running 
beyond,  and  across  the  brook  a  sudden  sharp  rise, 
crowned  with  a  thick  growth  of  birches.  She  had 
played  steadily  as  she  passed  through  the  wood  and 
over  the  stream,  and  only  ceased  when  she  gained 
the  brow  of  the  hill  and  sprang  like  a  deer  down  the 
opposite  slope.  No  one  had  seen  her  go,  she  was  sure 
of  that ;  and  now  they  could  never  tell  which  way  she 
had  turned,  and  would  be  far  more  likely  to  run  back 
along  the  road.  How  they  would  shout  and  scream, 
and  how  Le  Boss  would  swear !  Ah,  no  more  would 
he  swear  at  Marie  because  people  did  not  always  give 
money',  being  perhaps  poor  themselves,  or  unwilling 
to  give  to  so  ugly  a  face  as  his  girl's,  who  carried 
round  the  dish.  No  more !  And  La  Patronne  would 
be  sorry  perhaps  a  little,  —  she  had  the  good  heart,  La 
Patronne,  under  all  the  fat,  —  and  Old  Billy,  he  would 
be  too  sorry,  she  was  sure.  Poor  Old  Billy !  it  was 
cruel  to  leave  him,  when  he  had  such  joy  of  her  play- 
ing, the  good  old  man,  and  a  hard  life  taking  care  of 
the  beasts,  and  bearing  all  the  blame  if  any  of  them 
died  through  hunger.  But  it  would  have  been  sadder 
for  Old  Billy  to  see  her  die,  Marie,  and  she  would  have 
died,  of  course  she  would !  To  live  without  the  Lady, 
a  pretty  life  that  would  be!  far  sooner  would  one 


8  MARIE. 

go  at  once  to  the  good  God,  where  the  angels  played 
all  day,  even  if  one  were  not  allowed  to  play  oneself 
just  at  first.  Afterward,  of  course,  when  they  found 
out  how  she  had  played  down  here,  it  would  be 
otherwise. 

Meanwhile,  all  these  thoughts  did  not  keep  Marie 
from  "being  tired,  and  hungry  too ;  and  she  was  glad 
enough  to  see  some '  brown  roof s  clustered  together  at 
a  little  distance,  as  she  turned  a  corner  of  the  road. 
A  village!  good!  Here  would  be  children,  with- 
out doubt;  and  where  there  were  children,  Marie  was 
among  friends.  She  stopped  for  a  moment,  to  push 
back  her  hair,  which  had  fallen  down  in  the  course  of 
her  flight,  and  to  tie  the  blue  handkerchief  neatly  over 
it,  and  shake  the  dust  from  her  bare  feet.  They  were 
pretty  feet,  so  brown  and  slender  !  She  had  shoes,  but 
they  were  in  the  wagon  ;  La  Patronne  took  care  of  all 
the  Sunday  clothes,  and  there  had  been  no  chance  to 
get  at  anything,  even  if  she  could  have  been  hampered 
by  such  things  as  shoes,  with  the  Lady  to  carry.  It 
did  not  in  the  least  matter  about  shoes,  when  it  was 
summer :  when  the  road  was  hot,  one  walked  in  the 
cool  grass  at  the  side ;  when  there  was  no  grass  —  eh, 
one  waited  till  one  came  to  some.  They  were  only  for 
state,  these  shoes.  They  were  stiff  and  hard,  and  the 
heel-places  hurt :  it  was  different  for  La  Patronne,  who 
wore  stockings  under  hers.  But  here  were  the  houses, 
and  it  was  time  to  play.  They  were  pleasant-looking 
houses,  Marie  thought ;  they  looked  as  if  persons  lived 


MARIE.  9 

in  them  who  stayed  at  home  and  spun,  as  the  women 
did  in  Brittany.  Ah,  that  it  was  far  away,  Brittany ! 
she  had  almost  forgotten  it,  and  now  it  all  seemed  to 
come  back  to  her,  as  she  gazed  about  her  at  the  houses, 
some  white,  some  brown,  all  with  an  air  of  thrift  and 
comfort,  as  becomes  a  New  England  village.  That 
white  house  there,  with  the  bright  green  blinds  !  That 
pleased  her  eye.  And  see !  there  was  a  child's  toy 
lying  on  the  step,  a  child's  face  peeping  out  of  the 
window.  Decidedly,  she  had  arrived. 

Marie  took  out  her  violin,  and  tuned  it  softly,  with 
little  rustling,  whispering  notes,  speaking  of  perfect 
accord  between  owner  and  instrument;  then  she 
looked  up  at  the  child  and  smiled,  and  began  to  play 
"En  revenant  d'Auvergne."  It  was  a  tune  that 
the  little  people  always  loved,  and  when  one  heard 
it,  the  feet  began  to  dance  before  the  head.  Sure 
enough,  the  door,  opened  in  another  moment,  and  the 
child  came  slipping  out :  not  with  flying  steps,  as  a  city 
child  would  come,  to  whom  wandering  musicians  were 
a  thing  of  every  day  ;  but  shyly,  with  sidelong  move- 
ments, clinging  to  the  wall  as  it  advanced,  and  only 
daring  by  stealth  to  lift  its  eyes  to  the  strange  woman 
with  the  fiddle,  a  sight  never  seen  before  in  its  little 
life.  But  Marie  knew  all  about  the  things  that  chil- 
dren think.  What  was  she  but  a  child  herself  ?  she 
had  little  knowledge  of  grown  persons,  and  regarded 
them  all  as  ogres,  more  or  less,  except  Old  Billy,  and 
La  Patronne,  who  really  meant  to  be  kind. 


10  MARIE. 

"  Come,  lit*  girl ! "  she  said  in  her  clear  soft  voice. 
*  Come  and  dance  !  for  you  I  play,  for  you  I  sing  too, 
if  you  will.  Ah,  the  pretty  song,  'En  revenant 
d'Auvergne ! ' '  And  she  began  to  sing  as  she  played : 

"  Eh,  gai,  Coco ! 
Eh,  gai,  Cocol 
Eh,  venez  voir  la  danse 
Du  petit  marmot  1 
Eh,  venez  voir  la  danse 
Du  petit  marmot!  " 

The  little  girl  pressed  closer  against  the  wall,  her 
eyes  wide  open,  her  finger  in  her  mouth,  yet  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  drawn  by  the  smile  as  well  as  the 
music.  Presently  another  came  running  up,  and  an- 
other ;  then  the  boys,  who  had  just  brought  their  cows 
home  and  were  playing  marbles  on  the  sly,  behind  the 
brown  barn,  heard  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  and  came 
running,  stuffing  their  gains  into  their  pockets  as  they 
ran.  Then  Mrs.  Piper,  who  was  always  foolish  about 
music,  her  neighbors  said,  came  to  her  door,  and  Mrs. 
Post  opposite,  who  was  as  deaf  as  her  namesake,  came 
to  see  what  Susan  Piper  was  after,  loitering  round  the 
door  when  the  men-folks  were  coming  in  to  their 
supper :  and  so  with  one  thing  and  another,  Marie 
had  quite  a  little  crowd  around  her,  and  was  feeling 
happy  and  pleased,  and  sure  that  when  she  stopped 
playing  and  carried  round  her  handkerchief  knotted 
at  the  four  corners  so  as  to  form  a  bag,  the  pennies 
would  drop  into  it  as  fast,  yes,  and  maybe  a  good  deal 


MARIE.  11 

faster,  than  if  Le  Boss's  ugly  daughter  was  carrying  it, 
with  her  nose  turned  up  and  one  eye  looking  round 
the  corner  to  see  where  her  hair  was  gone  to.  Ah,  Le 
Boss,  what  was  he  doing  this  evening  for  his  music, 
with  no  Marie  and  no  Lady ! 

And  it  was  just  at  this  triumphant  moment  that 
Jacques  De  Arthenay  came  round  the  corner  and  into 
the  village  street. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

r  D'ARTHENAY,   TENEZ  FOI  I" 

THEEE  had  been  De  Arthenays  in  the  village 
ever  since  it  became  a  village:  never  many  of 
them,  one  or  two  at  most  in  a  generation ;  not  a  pro- 
lific stock,  but  a  hardy  and  persistent  one.  No  one 
knew  when  the  name  had  dropped  its  soft  French 
sound,  and  taken  the  harsh  Anglo-Saxon  accent.  It 
had  been  so  with  all  the  old  French  names,  the 
L'Homme-Dieus  and  Des  Isles  and  Beaulieus;  the 
air,  or  the  granite,  or  one  knows  not  what,  caused  an 
ossification  of  the  consonants,  a  drying  up  of  the 
vowels,  till  these  names,  once  soft  and  melodious, 
became  more  angular,  more  rasping  in  utterance, 
than  ever  Smith  or  Jones  could  be. 

They  were  Huguenots,  the  d'Arthenays.  A  friend 
from  childhood  of  St.  Castin,  Jacques  d'Arthenay 
had  followed  his  old  companion  to  America  at  the 
time  when  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes 
rendered  France  no  safe  dwelling-place  for  those 
who  had  no  hinges  to  their  knees.  A  stern,  silent 
man,  this  d'Arthenay,  like  most  of  his  race:  hold- 
ing in  scorn  the  t  hings  of  earthly  life,  brooding  over 
grievances,  given  to  dwelling  much  on  heaven 


MARIE.  13 

and  hell,  as  became  his  time  and  class.  Leaving 
castle  and  lands  and  all  earthly  ties  behind  them, 
he  and  his  wife  came  out  of  Sodom,  as  they 
expressed  it,  and  turned  not  their  faces,  looking 
steadfastly  forward  to  the  wilderness  where  they 
were  to  worship  God  in  His  own  temple,  the  virgin 
forest.  It  had  been  a  terrible  shock  to  find  the 
Baron  de  St.  Castin  fallen  away  from  religion  and 
civilisation,  living  in  savage  pomp  with  his  savage 
wives,  the  daughters  of  the  great  chief  Modocawando. 
There  could  be  no  such  companionship  as  this  for 
the  Sieur  d'Arthenay  and  his  noble  wife ;  the  friend- 
ship of  half  a  lifetime  was  sternly  repudiated,  and 
d'Arthenay  cast  in  his  lot  with  the  little  band  of 
Huguenot  settlers  who  were  striving  to  win  their 
livelihood  from  the  rugged  soil  of  eastern  Maine. 

It  was  bitter  bread  that  they  ate,  those  French 
settlers.  We  read  the  story  again  and  again,  each 
time  with  a  fresh  pang  of  pity  and  regret;  but  it  is 
not  of  them  that  this  tale  is  told.  Jacques  d'Arthe- 
nay died  in  his  wilderness,  and  his  wife  followed 
him  quickly,  leaving  a  son  to  carry  on  the  name. 
The  gravestone  of  these  first  d'Arthenays  was  still 
to  be  seen  in  the  old  burying-ground :  they  had 
been  the  first  to  be  buried  there.  The  old  stone  was 
sunk  half-way  in  the  earth,  and  was  gray  with  moss 
and  lichens;  but  the  inscription  was  still  legible,  if 
one  looked  close,  and  had  patience  to  decipher  the 
crabbed  text 


14  MARIE. 

"  Jacques  St.  George,  Sieur  d'Arthenay  et  de  Vivonne. 
Mort  en  foi  et  en  espe'rance,  28me  Decembre,  1694." 

Then  a  pair  of  mailed  hands,  clasped  as  in  sign  of 
friendship  or  loyalty,  and  beneath  them  again,  the 

words, 

«  D'Arthenay,  tenez  foi  I  " 

The  story  was  that  the  son  of  this  first  Sieur  d'Ar- 
thenay had  been  exposed  to  some  dire  temptation, 
whether  of  love  or  of  ambition  was  not  clearly  known, 
and  had  been  in  danger  of  turning  from  the  faith  of 
his  people  and  embracing  that  of  Rome.  He  came 
one  day  to  meditate  beside  his  father's  grave,  hoping 
perhaps  to  draw  some  strength,  some  inspiration,  from 
the  memories  of  that  stern  and  righteous  Huguenot ; 
and  as  he  sat  beside  the  stone,  lo  !  a  mailed  hand  ap- 
peared, holding  a  sword,  and  graved  with  the  point  of 
the  sword  on  the  stone,  the  old  motto  of  his  father's 

house,  — 

"D'Arthenay,  tenez  foi!" 

And  he  had  been  strengthened,  and  lived  and  died 
in  the  faith  of  his  father.  Many  people  in  the  village 
scouted  this  story,  and  called  it  child's  foolishness,  but 
there  were  some  who  liked  to  believe  it,  and  who 
pointed  out  that  these  words  were  not  carved  deeply 
and  regularly,  like  the  rest  of  the  inscription,  but 
roughly  scratched,  as  if  with  a  sharp  point.  And  that 
although  merely  so  scratched,  they  had  never  been 
effaced,  but  were  even  more  easily  read  than  the 
carven  script. 


MARIE.  15 

Among  those  who  held  it  for  foolishness  was  the 
present  Jacques  De  Arthenay.  He  was  perhaps  the 
fifth  in  descent  from  the  old  Huguenot,  but  he 
might  have  been  his  own  son  or  brother.  The  Hugue- 
not doctrines  had  only  grown  a  little  colder,  a  little 
harder,  turned  into  New  England  Orthodoxy  as  it  was 
understood  fifty  years  ago.  He  thought  little  of  his 
French  descent  or  his  noble  blood.  He  pronounced 
his  name  Jakes,  as  all  his  neighbors  did  ;  he  lived  on  his 
farm,  as  they  lived  on  theirs.  If  it  was  a  better  farm, 
the  land  in  better  condition,  the  buildings  and  fences 
trimmer  and  better  cared  for,  that  was  in  the  man,  not 
in  his  circumstances.  He  was  easily  leader  among  the 
few  men  whose  scattered  dwellings  made  up  the  vil- 
lage of  Sea  Meadows  (comnionly  pronounced  Semed- 
ders.)  His  house  did  not  lie  on  the  little  "street,"  as 
that  part  of  the  road  was  called  where  some  half- 
dozen  houses  were  clustered  together,  witli  their  farms 
spreading  out  behind  them,  and  the  post-office  for  the 
king-pin  ;  yet  no  important  step  would  be  taken  by 
the  villagers  without  the  advice  and  approval  of 
Jacques  De  Arthenay.  Briefly,  he  was  a  born  leader  ; 
a  masterful  man,  with  a  habit  of  thinking  before  he 
spoke ;  and  when  he  said  a  thing  must  be  done,  people 
were  apt  to  do  it.  He  was  now  thirty  years  old,  without 
kith  or  kin  that  any  one  knew  of  ;  living  by  himself  in 
a  good  house,  and  keeping  it  clean  and  decent,  almost 
as  a  woman  might ;  not  likely  ever  to  change  his  con- 
dition, it  was  supposed 


16  MARIE. 

This  was  the  man  who  happened  to  come  into  the 
street  on  some  errand,  that  soft  summer  evenii  g,  at 
the  very  moment  when  Marie  was  feeling  lifted  up  by 
the  light  of  joy  in  the  children's  faces,  and  was  telling 
herself  how  good  it  was  that  she  had  come  this  way. 
Hearing  the  sound  of  the  fiddle,  De  Arthenay  stopped 
for  a  moment,  and  his  face  grew  dark  as  night.  He 
was  a  religious  man,  as  sternly  so  as  his  Huguenot 
ancestor,  but  wearing  his  religion  with  a  difference. 
He  knew  all  music,  except  psalm-tunes,  to  be  directly 
from  the  devil.  Even  as  to  the  psalm-tunes  them- 
selves, it  seemed  to  him  a  dreadful  thing  that  worship 
could  not  be  conducted  without  this  compromise  with 
evil,  this  snare  to  catch  the  ear ,  and  he  harboured  in 
the  depth  of  his  soul  thoughts  about  the  probable 
frivolity  of  David,  which  he  hardly  voiced  even  to 
himself.  The  fiddle,  in  particular,  he  held  to  be  posi- 
tively devilish,  both  in  its  origin  and  influence ;  those 
who  played  this  unholy  instrument  were  bound  to  no 
good  place,  and  were  sure  to  gain  their  port,  in  his 
opinion.  Being  thus  minded,  it  was  with  a  shock  of 
horror  that  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  fiddle  in  the 
street  of  his  own  village,  not  fifty  yards  from  the 
meeting-house  itself.  After  a  moment's  pause,  he 
came  wrathfully  down  the  street;  his  height  raised 
him  a  head  and  shoulders  above  the  people  who  were 
ringed  around  the  little  musician,  and  he  looked  over 
their  heads,  with  his  arm  raised  to  command,  and  his 
lips  opened  to  forbid  the  shameful  thing.  Then  —  he 


MARIE.  17 

saw  Marie's  face;  and  straightway  his  arm  dropped 
to  his  side,  and  he  stood  without  speaking.  The 
children  looked  up  at  him,  and  moved  away,  for  they 
were  always  afraid  of  him,  and  at  this  moment  his  face 
was  dreadful  to  sea 

Yet  it  was  nothing  dreadful  that  he  looked  upon. 
Marie  was  standing  with  her  head  bent  down  over  her 
violin,  in  a  pretty  way  she  had.  A  light,  slight  figure, 
not  short,  yet  with  a  look  that  spoke  all  of  youth 
and  morning  grace.  She  wore  a  little  blue  gown, 
patched  and  faded,  and  dusty  enough  after  her  day's 
walk ;  her  feet  were  dusty  too,  but  slender  and  deli- 
cately shaped.  Her  face  was  like  nothing  that  had 
been  seen  in  those  parts  before,  and  the  beauty  of  it 
seemed  to  strike  cold  to  the  man's  heart,  as  he  stood 
and  gazed  with  unwilling  eyes,  hating  the  feeling  that 
constrained  him,  yet  unable  for  the  moment  to  re- 
strain it  or  to  turn  his  eyes  away.  She  had  that  clear, 
bright  whiteness  of  skin  that  is  seen  only  in  French- 
women, and  only  here  and  there  among  these  ;  white- 
ness as  of  fire  behind  alabaster.  Her  hair  was  black 
and  soft,  and  the  lashes  lay  like  jet  on  her  cheek,  as 
she  stood  looking  down,  smiling  a  little,  feeling  so 
happy,  so  pleased  that  she  was  pleasing  others.  And 
now,  when  she  raised  her  eyes,  they  were  seen  to  be 
dark  and  soft,  too ;  but  with  what  fire  in  their  depths, 
what  sunny  light  of  joy,  —  the  joy  of  a  child  among 
children !  De  Arthenay  started,  and  his  hands  clenched 
themselves  unconsciously.  Marie  started,  too,  as  she 


18  MARIE. 

met  the  stern  gaze  fixed  upon  her,  and  the  joyous  light 
faded  from  her  eyes.  Eudely  it  broke  in  upon  her 
pleasant  thoughts,  —  this  vision  of  a  set,  hearded  face, 
with  cold  blue  eyes  that  yet  had  a  flame  in  them,  like 
a  spark  struck  from  steel.  The  little  song  died  on  her 
lips,  and  unconsciously  she  lowered  her  bow,  and  stood 
silent,  returning  helplessly  the  look  bent  so  sternly 
upon  her. 

When  Jacques  de  Arthenay  found  himself  able  to 
speak  at  last,  he  started  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  he  asked.  "  How  did  you  come 
here,  young  woman?" 

Marie  held  out  her  fiddle  with  a  pretty,  appealing 
gesture.  "  I  come  —  from  away ! "  she  said,  in  her 
broken  English,  that  sounded  soft  and  strange  to  his 
ears  "I  do  no  harm.  I  play,  to  make  happy  the 
children,  to  get  bread  for  me." 

"  Who  came  with  you  ? "  De  Arthenay  continued 
"  Who  are  your  folks  ? " 

Marie  shook  her  head,  and  a  light  crept  into  her 
eyes  as  she  thought  of  Le  Boss.  "I  have  nobodies!" 
she  said.  "  I  am  with  myself,  sauf  le  violon  ;  I  mean, 
wiz  my  fiddle*  Monsieur  likes  not  music,  no  ? " 

She  looked  wistfully  at  Jhim,  and  something  seemed 
to  rise  up  in  the  man's  throat  and  choke  him.  He 
made  a  violent  motion,  as  if  to  free  himself  from  some- 
thing. What  had  happened  to  him,  —  was  he  suddenly 
possessed,  or  was  he  losing  his  wits?  He  tried  to 
force  his  voice  back  into  its  usual  tone,  tried  even  to 


MARIE.  19 

speak  gently,  though  his  heart  was  beating  so  wildly  at 
the  way  she  looked,  at  the  sweet  notes  of  her  voice,  like 
a  flute  in  its  lower  notes,  that  he  could  hardly  hear  his 
own  words.  "  No,  no  music  ! "  he  said.  "  There  must  he 
no  music  here,  among  Christian  folks.  Put  away  that 
thing,  young  woman.  It  is  an  evil  thing,  bringing  sin, 
and  death,  which  is  the  wages  of  sin,  with  it.  How 
came  you  here,  if  you  have  no  one  belonging  to  you  ? " 

Falteringly,  her  sweet  eyes  dropped  on  the  ground, 
with  only  now  and  then  a  timid,  appealing  glance  at 
this  terrible  person,  this  awful  judge  who  had  suddenly 
dropped  from  the  skies,  Marie  told  her  little  story,  or 
as  much  of  it  as  she  thought  needful.  She  had  been 
with  bad  people,  playing  for  them,  a  long  time,  she 
did  not  know  how  long.  And  then  they  would  take 
away  her  violin,  and  she  would  not  stay,  and  she  ran 
away  from  them,  and  bad  walked  all  day,  and  —  and 
that  was  all.  A  little  sob  shook  her  voice  at  the  last 
words ;  she  had  not  realised  before  bow  utterly  alone 
she  was.  The  delight  of  freedom,  of  getting  away 
from  her  tyrants,  bad  been  enough  at  first,  and  she 
had  been  as  it  were  on  wings  all  day,  like  a  bird  let 
loose  from  its  cage  ;  now  the 'little  bird  was  weary,  and 
the  wings  drooped,  and  there  was  no  nest,  not  even  a 
friendly  cage  where  one  would  find  food  and  drink. 

A  sudden  passion  of  pity  —  he  supposed  it  was  pity 
—  shook  the  strong  man.  He  felt  a  wild  impulse  to 
catch  the  little  shrinking  creature  in  his  arms  and 
bear  her  away  to  his  own  home,  to  warm  and  cheer 


20  MARIE. 

and  comfort  her.  Was  there  ever  before  anything  in 
the  world  so  sweet,  so  helpless,  so  forlorn  ?  He  looked 
around  The  children  were  all  gone ;  he  stood  alone 
in  the  street  with  the  foreign  woman,  and  night  wa^ 
falling.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  Abby  Kock,  who 
had  been  watching  from  her  window  for  the  past 
few  minutes,  opened  her  door  and  came  out,  stepping 
quietly  toward  them,  as  if  they  were  just  the  people 
she  had  expected  to  see.  De  Arthenay  hailed  her  as 
an  angel  from  Heaven ;  and  yet  Abby  did  not  look 
like  an  angel. 

"  Abby  1 "  he  cried.  "  Come  here  a  minute,  will 
you?" 

"  Good  evening,  Jacques  !  *  said  Abby,  in  her  quiet 
voice.  "  Good  evening  to  you !  "  she  added,  speaking 
kindly  to  the  little  stranger.  "  I  was  coming  to  see 
if  you  would  n't  like  to  step  into  my  house  and  rest 
you  a  spell.  "Why,  my  heart ! "  she  cried,  as  Marie 
raised  her  head  at  the  sound  of  the  friendly  voice, 
"  you  're  nothing  but  a  child.  Come  right  along  with 
me,  my  dear.  Alone,  are  ye,  and  night  coming  on  ? " 

"  That 's  right,  Abby !  '*  cried  De  Arthenay,  with 
feverish  eagerness.  "Yes,  yes,  take  her  home  with 
you  and  make  her  comfortable.  She  is  a  stranger,  and 
has  no  friends,  so  she  says.  I  —  1 11  see  you  in  the 
morning  about  her.  Take  her !  take  her  in  where  she 
will  be  comfortable,  and  1 11  —  " 

"  1 11  pay  you  well  for  it,"  was  what  he  was  going 
to  say,  but  Abby's  quiet  look  stopped  the  words  on 


MARIE.  21 

his  lips.  Why  should  he  pay  her  for  taking  care  of 
a  stranger,  of  whom  he  knew  no  more  than  she  did  , 
whom  he  had  never  seen  till  this  moment  ?  —  why, 
indeed  f  and  she  was  as  well  able  to  pay  for  the  young 
woman's  keep  as  he  was,  to  say  the  least.  All  this 
De  Arthenay  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  in  Abby  Kock's 
glance.  He  turned  away,  muttering  something  about 
seeing  them  in  the  morning;  then,  with  an  abrupt 
bow,  which  yet  was  not  without  grace,  he  strode 
swiftly  down  the  street  and  took  his  way  home. 


CHAPTER   III 

ABBY   ROCK. 

IF  Abby  Rock's  kitchen  was  not  heaven,  it  seemed 
very  near  it  to  Marie  that  evening.  She  found 
herself  suddenly  in  an  atmosphere  of  peace  and  com- 
fort of  which  her  life  had  heretofore  known  nothing. 
The  evening  had  fallen  chill  outside,  but  here  all  was 
warm  and  light  and  cheerful,  and  the  warmth  and  cheer 
seemed  to  be  embodied  in  the  person  of  the  woman 
who  moved  quickly  to  and  fro,  stirring  the  fire, 
putting  the  kettle  on  the  hob  (for  those  were  the 
days  of  the  open  fire,  of  crane  and  kettle,  and  pictur- 
esque, if  not  convenient,  housekeeping),  drawing  a 
chair  up  near  the  cheerful  blaze.  Marie  felt  herself 
enfolded  with  comfort.  A  shawl  was  thrown  over  her 
shoulders ;  she  was  lifted  like  a  child,  and  placed  in 
the  chair  by  the  fireside ;  and  now,  as  she  sat  in  a 
dream,  fearing  every  moment  to  wake  and  find  herself 
back  in  the  old  life  again,  a  cup  of  tea,  hot  arid  fra- 
grant, was  set  before  her,  and  the  handkerchief  ten- 
derly loosened  from  her  neck,  while  a  kind  voice  bade 
her  drink,  for  it  would  do  her  good. 

"  You  look  beat  out,  and  that 's  the  fact,"  said  Abby 
Rock.  "  To-morrow  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  it,  but 
you  no  need  to  say  a  single  word  to-night,  only  just 
set  still  and  rest  ye.  I'm  a  lone  woman  hera  I 


MARIE.  23 

buried  my  mother  last  June,  and  I  'm  right  glad  to 
have  company  once  in  a  while.  Abby  Rock,  my  name 
is ;  and  perhaps  if  you  'd  tell  me  yours,  we  should  feel 
more  comfortable  like,  when  we  come  to  sit  down  to 
supper.  What  do  you  say  ? " 

Her  glance  was  so  kind,  her  voice  so  cordial  and 
hearty,  that  Marie  could  have  knelt  down  to  thank 
her.  "I  am  Marie,"  she  said,  smiling  back  into  the 
kind  eyes.  "Only  Marie,  nossing  else." 

"Maree!"  repeated  Abby  Rock.  "Well,  it's  a 
pretty  name,  sure  enough;  has  a  sound  of  'Mary*  in 
it,  too,  and  that  was  my  mother's  name.  But  what 
was  your  father's  name,  or  your  mother's,  if  so  be  your 
father  ain't  living  now  ? " 

Marie  shook  her  head.  "I  never  know!"  she  said. 
*  All  the  days  I  lived  with  Me*re  Jeanne  in  the  village, 
far  away,  oh,  far,  over  the  sea." 

"  Over  the  sea  ? "  said  Abby.  "  You  mean  the  bay, 
don't  you,  —  some  of  those  French  settlements  down 
along  the  shore  ? " 

But  Marie  meant  the  sea,  it  appeared ;  for  her  vil- 
lage was  in  France,  in  Bretagne,  and  there  she  had 
lived  till  the  day  when  Mere  Jeanne  died,  and  she 
was  left  alone,  with  no-one  belonging  to  her.  Mere 
Jeanne  was  not  her  mother,  no !  nor  yet  her  grand- 
mother,—  only  her  mother's  aunt,  but  good,  Abby  must 
understand,  good  as  an  angel,  good  as  Abby  herself. 
And  when  she  was  dead,  there  was  only  her  son,  Jean- 
uot,  and  he  had  married  a  devil,  —  but  yes  !  —  as 


24 


MARIE. 


Abby  exclaimed,  and  held  up  her  hands  in  reproof, 
—  truly  a  devil  of  the  worst  kind;  and  one  day, 
when  Jeannot  was  away,  this  wife  had  sold  her, 
Marie,  to  another  devil,  Le  Boss,  who  made  the  tours 
in  the  country  for  to  sing  and  to  play.  And  he  had 
brought  her  away  to  this  country,  over  very  dreadful 
seas,  where  one  went  down  into  the  grave  at  every 
instant,  and  then  up  again  to  the  clouds,  but  leaving 
one's  stomach  behind  one  —  ah,  but  terrible !  Others 
were  with  them,  oh,  yes  !  —  This  in  response  to  Abby's 
question,  for  in  spite  of  her  good  resolutions,  curiosity 
was  taking  possession  of  her,  and  it  was  evidently  a 
relief  to  Marie  to  pour  out  her  little  tale  in  a  sympa- 
thetic ear,  —  many  others.  La  Patronne,  the  wife  of 
Le  Boss,  who  was  like  a  barrel,  but  not  bad,  when 
she  could  see  through  the  fat,  not  bad  in  every  way ; 
and  there  was  Old  Billy,  who  took  care  of  the  horses 
and  dogs,  and  he  was  her  friend,  and  she  loved  him,  and 
he  had  always  the  good  word  for  her  even  when  he  was 
very  drunk,  too  drunk  to  speak  to  any  one  else.  And 
then  there  was  the  daughter  of  Le  Boss,  who  would 
in  all  probability  never  die,  for  she  was  so  ugly  that 
she  would  not  be  admitted  into  the  other  world,  where. 
Mere  Jeanne  said,  even  Monsieur  the  Great  Devil  him- 
self was  good-looking,  save  for  his  expression.  Also 
there  were  the  boys  who  tumbled  and  rode  on  the 
ponies,  and  —  and  —  and  ozer  people.  And  with  this 
Marie's  head  dropped  forward,  and  she  was  asleep. 
It  seemed  a  pity  to  wake  her  when  supper  was 


MARIE.  25 

ready,  but  Abby  knew  just  how  good  her  rolls  were, 
and  knew  that  the  child  must  be  famished ;  and  sure 
enough,  after  a  little  nap,  Marie  was  ready  to  wake 
and  sit  up  at  the  little  round  table,  and  be  fed  like  a 
baby  with  everything  good  that  Abby  could  think  of. 
The  fare  had  not  been  dainty  in  the  travelling  troupe 
of  Le  Boss.  The  fine  white  bread,  the  golden  butter, 
the  bit  of  broiled  fish,  smoking  hot,  seemed  viands  of 
paradise  to  the  hungry  girl.  She  laughed  for  pleasure, 
and  her  eyes  shone  like  stars.  It  was  like  the  chateau, 
she  said,  where  everything  was  gold  and  silver,  —  the 
chateau  where  Madame  la  Comtesse  lived.  As  for 
Abby  herself,  Marie  gravely  informed  her  that  she 
was  an  angel.  Abby  laughed,  not  ill  pleased.  "I 
don't  look  special  like  angels,"  she  said;  "that  is,  if 
the  pictures  I  Ve  seen  are  correct.  Not  much  wings  and 
curls  and  white  robes  about  me,  Maree.  And  who  ever 
heard  of  an  angel  in  a  check  apurn,  I  want  to  know  ? " 

But  Marie  was  not  to  be  turned  aside.  It  was  well 
known,  she  said,  that  angels  could  not  come  to 
earth  undisguised  in  these  days.  It  had  something 
to  do  with  the  Jews,  she  did  not  know  exactly  what. 
Mere  Jeanne  had  told  her,  but  she  forgot  just  how  it 
was.  But  as  to  their  not  coming  at  all,  that  would 
be  out  of  the  question,  for  how  would  the  good  God 
know  what  was  going  on  down  here,  or  know  who  was 
behaving  well  and  meriting  a  crown  of  glory,  and  who 
should  go  down  into  the  pit  ?  Did  not  Abby  see  that  ? 

Abby    privately    thought    that    here   was   strange 


26  MARIB. 

heathen  talk  to  be  going  on  in  her  kitchen ;  but  she 
said  nothing,  only  gave  her  guest  more  jam,  and  said 
she  was  eating  nothing,  —  the  proper  formula  for  a 
good  hostess,  no  matter  how  much  the  guest  may 
have  devoured.^ 

It  was  true,  as  has  been  said  before,  that  Abby 
Eock  was  not  fair  to  outward  view.  Nature  had 
been  in  a  crabbed  mood  when  she  fashioned  this 
gaunt,  angular  form,  these  gnarled,  unlovely  features. 
An  uncharitable  neighbour,  in  describing  Abby,  once 
said  that  she  looked  as  if  she  had  swallowed  an  old 
cedar  fence-rail  and  shrunk  to  it ;  and  the  description 
^yas  apt  enough  so  far  as  the  body  went.  Her  skin, 
eyes,  and  hair  were  of  different  shades  (yet  not  so  very 
different)  of  greyish  brown ;  her  nose  was  long  and 
knotty,  her  mouth  and  chin  apparently  taken  at 
random  from  a  box  of  misfits.  Yes,  the  cedar  fence- 
rail  came  as  near  to  it  as  anything  could.  Yet  some- 
how, no  one  who  had  seen  the  light  of  kindness  in 
those  faded  eyes,  and  heard  the  sweet,  cordial  tones 
of  that  quiet  voice,  thought  much  about  their  owner's 
looks.  People  said  it  was  a  pity  Abby  was  n't  better 
favoured,  and  then  they  thought  no  more  about  it,  but 
were  simply  thankful  that  she  existed. 

She  had  led  the  life  that  many  an  ugly  saint  leads, 
here  in  New  England,  and  the  world  over.  Nurse 
and  drudge  for  the  pretty  younger  sister,  the  pride 
and  joy  of  her  heart,  till  she  married  and  went  away 
to  live  in  a  distant  State ;  then  drudge  and  nurse  for 


MARIE.  Vt 

the  invalid  mother,  broken  down  by  unremitting  toil 
No  toil  would  ever  break  Abby  down,  for  she  was  a 
strong  woman ;  she  had  never  worked  too  hard  that 
she  was  aware  of ;  but  —  she  had  always  worked,  and 
never  done  anything  else.  No  lover  had  ever  looked 
into  her  eyes  or  taken  her  hand  tenderly.  Not  likely ! 
she  would  say  to  herself  with  a  scornful  sniff,  eyeing 
her  homely  face  in  the  glass.  Men  were  n't  such  fools 
as  they  looked. 

One  or  two  had  wanted  to  marry  her  house,  as  she 
expressed  it,  and  had  asked  for  herself  into  the  bargain, 
not  seeing  how  they  could  manage  it  otherwise.  They 
were  not  to  blame  for  wanting  the  house,  she  thought 
with  some  complacency,  as  she  glanced  round  her 
sitting-room.  Everything  in  the  room  shone  and 
twinkled.  The  rugs  were  beautifully  made,  and  the 
floor  under  them  in  the  usual  dining-table  condition 
ascribed  ever  since  books  were  written  to  the  model 
housewife.  The  corner  cupboards  held  treasures  of 
blue  and  white  that  it  makes  one  ache  to  think  of 
to-day,  and  some  pieces  of  India  china  besides,  brought, 
over  seas  by  some  sea-going  Rock  of  a  former  genera- 
tion :  and  there  were  silver  spoons  in  the  iron  box 
under  Abby's  bed,  and  the  dragon  tea-pot  on  the 
high  narrow  mantel-piece  was  always  full,  but  not 
with  tea-leaves.  Yes,  and  there  was  no  better  cow  in 
the  village  than  Abby's,  save  those  two  fancy  heifers 
that  Jacques  de  Arthenay  had  lately  bought.  Alto- 
gether, she  did  not  wonder  that  some  of  the  weaker 


28  MARIE. 

brethren,  who  found  their  own  farms  "  hard  sledding,* 
should  think  enough  of  her  pleasant  home  to  be  will- 
ing to  take  her  along  with  it,  since  they  could  do  no 
better ;  but  they  did  not  get  it.  Abby  found  life  very 
pleasant,  now  that  grief  was  softened  down  into  tender 
recollection.  To  be  alone,  and  able  to  do  things  just 
when  she  wanted  to  do  them,  and  in  her  own  way ; 
U)  consider  what  she  herself  liked  to  eat,  and  to  wear, 
and  to  do ;  to  feel  that  she  could  come  and  go,  rise 
up  and  lie  down,  at  her  own  will,  —  was  strange  but 
pleasant  to  her.  How  long  the  pleasure  would  have 
lasted  is  another  question,  for  the  woman's  nature  was 
to  love  and  to  serve  ;  but  just  now  there  was  no  doubt 
that  she  was  enjoying  her  freedom. 

And  now  she  had  taken  in  this  little  stranger,  just 
because  she  felt  like  it ;  it  was  a  new  luxury,  a  new 
amusement,  that  was  all.  Such  a  pretty  little  creature, 
so  soft  and  young,  and  with  that  brightness  in  her 
face!  Sister  Lizzie  was  light-complected,  and  this 
child  did  n't  favour  her,  not  the  least  mite ;  yet  it  was 
some  like  the  same  feeling,  as  if  it  were  a  kitten  or 
a  pretty  bird  to  take  care  of,  and  feed  and  pet.  So 
thought  Abby,  as  she  tucked  up  Marie  in  Sister  Lizzie's 
little  white  bed,  in  the  pink  ribbon  chamber,  as  she 
had  named  it  in  sport,  after  she  had  let  Lizzie  furnish 
it  to  her  taste,  that  last  year  before  she  was  married 
The  child  looked  about  her  as  if  it  were  a  palace 
instead  of  a  lean-to  chamber  with  a  sloping  roof. 
She  had  never  seen  anything  like  this  in  her  life. 


MARIE.  29 

since  those  days  when  she  went  to  the  chateau.  She 
touched  the  white  walls  softly,  and  passed  her  hand 
over  the  pink  mats  on  the  bureau  with  wondering 
awe.  And  then  she  curled  up  in  the  white  bed  when 
Abby  bade  her,  as  like  a  kitten  as  anything  could  be. 
"  Oh,  you  are  good,  good !  "  cried  the  child,  whom  the 
warmth  and  comfort  and  kindness  seemed  to  have 
lifted  into  another  world  from  the  cold,  sordid  one  in 
which  she  had  lived  so  long.  She  caught  the  kind 
hard  knotted  hand,  and  kissed  it ;  but  Abby  snatched 
it  away,  and  blushed  to  her  eyebrows,  feeling  that 
something  improper  had  occurred.  "  There !  there !  " 
she  said,  half  confused,  half  reproving.  "  You  don't 
want  to  do  such  things  as  that !  I  Ve  done  no 
more  than  was  right,  and  you  alone  and  friendless, 
and  night  coming  on.  Go  to  sleep  now,  like  a  good 
girl,  and  we  '11  see  in  the  morning."  So  Marie  went 
to  sleep  in  Sister  Lizzie's  bed,  with  her  fiddle  lying 
across  her  feet,  since  she  could  not  sleep  a  wink  other- 
wise, she  said ;  and  when  Abby  went  downstairs  the 
room  seemed  cold,  and  she  thought  how  she  missed 
Lizzie,  and  wondered  if  it  wouldn't  be  pleasant  to 
keep  this  pretty  creature  for  a  spell,  and  do  for  her  a 
little,  and  make  her  up  some  portion  of  clothing. 
There  was  a  real  good  dress  of  Lizzie's,  hanging  this 
minute  in  the  press  upstairs  :  she  had  a  good  mind  to 
take  it  out  at  once  and  see  what  could  be  done  to  it ; 
perhaps  —  and  Abby  did  not  go  to  bed  very  early  her- 
self that  night. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

POSSESSION. 

JACQUES  DE  ARTHENAY  went  home  that  night 
like  a  man  possessed.  He  was  furious  with  him- 
self, with  the  strange  woman  who  had  thus  set  his 
sober  thoughts  in  a  whirl,  with  the  very  children  in  the 
street  who  had  laughed  and  danced  and  encouraged 
her  in  her  sinful  music,  to  her  own  peril  and  theirs, 
He  thought  it  was  only  anger  that  so  held  his  mind ; 
yet  once  in  his  house,  seated  on  the  little  stool  before 
his  fire,  he  found  himself  still  in  the  street,  still  look- 
ing down  into  that  lovely  childish  face  that  lifted 
itself  so  innocently  to  his,  still  smitten  to  the  heart 
by  the  beauty  of  it,  and  by  the  fear  that  he  saw  in  it 
of  his  own  stern  aspect.  He  had  never  looked  upon 
any  woman  before.  He  had  been  proud  of  it,  —  proud 
of  his  strength  and  cleverness,  that  needed  no  meddle- 
some female  creature  coming  in  between  him  and  his 
business,  between  him  and  his  religion.  He  had  not 
let  his  hair  and  beard  grow,  knowing  nothing  of  such 
practices ;  but  in  heart  he  had  been  a  Nazarite  from  his 
youth  up,  —  serving  God  in  his  harsh,  unloving  way ; 
loving  God,  as  he  thought ;  certainly  loving  nothing 
else,  if  it  were  not  the  dumb  creatures,  to  whom  he 


MARIE.  31 

was  always  kind  and  just.  And  now  —  what  had 
happened  to  him?  He  asked  himself  the  question 
sternly,  sitting  there  before  the  cheerful  blaze,  yet 
neither  seeing  nor  feeling  it.  The  answer  seemed  to 
cry  itself  in  his  ears,  to  write  itself  before  his  eyes  in 
letters  of  fire.  The  thing  had  happened  that  happens 
in  the  story  books,  that  really  comes  to  pass  once  in 
a  hundred  years,  they  say.  He  had  seen  the  one 
woman  in  the  world  that  he  wanted  for  his  own,  to 
have  and  to  hold,  to  love  and  to  cherish.  She  was  a 
stranger,  a  vagabond,  trading  in  iniquity,  and  gaining 
her  bread  by  the  corruption  of  souls  of  men  and 
children ;  and  he  loved  her,  he  longed  for  her,  and  the 
world  meant  nothing  to  him  henceforth  unless  he 
could  have  her.  He  put  the  thought  away  from  him 
like  a  snake,  but  it  came  back  and  curled  round  his 
heart,  and  made  him  cold  and  then  hot  and  then  cold 
again.  Was'  he  not  a  professing  Christian,  bound  by 
the  strictest  ties  ?  Yes !  How  she  looked,  standing 
there  with  the  children  about  her,  the  little  slender 
figure  swaying  to  and  fro  to  the  music,  the  pretty  head 
bent  down  so  lovingly,  the  dark  eyes  looking  here  and 
there,  bright  and  shy,  like  those  of  a  wild  creature 
so  gentle  in  its  nature  that  it  knew  no  fear.  But  he 
had  taught  her  fear !  yes,  he  saw  it  grow  under  his 
eyes,  just  as  the  love  grew  in  his  own  heart  at  the 
same  moment. 

Love !  what  sort  of  word  was  that  for  him  to  be 
using,  even  in  his  mind?    To-morrow  she  would  be 


32  MARIE. 

gone,  this  wandering  fiddler,  and  all  this  would  be  for- 
gotten in  a  day,  for  he  had  the  new  cattle  to  see  to, 
and  a  hundred  things  of  importance. 

But  was  anything  else  of  importance  save  just  this 
one  girl  ?  and  if  he  should  let  her  go  on  her  way,  out 
into  the  world  again,  to  certain  perdition,  would  not  the 
guilt  be  partly  his  ?  He,  who  saw  and  knew  the  perils 
and  pitfalls,  might  he  not  snatch  this  child  from  the 
fire  and  save  her  soul  alive  ?  —  No !  he  would  begone, 
as  soon  as  morning  came,  and  take  this  sinful  body  of 
his  away  from  temptation. 

How  soon  would  Abby  get  through  her  morning  work, 
so  that  he  might  with  some  fair  pretext  go  to  the  house 
to  see  how  the  stranger  had  slept,  and  how  she  had 
fared  ?  It  would  be  cowardly  to  drop  the  burden  on 
Abby's  shoulders,  she  only  a  woman  like  the  rest  of 
them,  even  if  she  had  somewhat  more  sense. 

So  Jacques  De  Arthenay  sat  by  his  fire  till  it  was 
cold  and  dead,  a  miserable  and  a  wrathful  man ;  and 
he  too  slept  little  that  night. 

But  Marie  slept  long  and  peacefully  in  Sister  Lizzie's 
bed,  and  looked  so  pretty  in  her  sleep  that  Abby  came 
three  times  to  wake  her,  and  three  times  went  away 
again,  unable  to  spoil  so  perfect  a  picture.  At  last, 
however,  the  dark  eyes  opened  of  their  own  accord, 
and  Marie  began  to  chirp  and  twitter,  like  a  bird  at 
daybreak  in  its  nest ;  only  instead  of  daybreak,  it 
was  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  most  shocking 
hour  for  anybody  to  be  getting  up.  But  Abby  had 


MARIE,  33 

been  in  the  habit  of  spoiling  her  sister,  who  had  a 
theory  that  she  was  never  able  to  do  anything  early 
in  the  morning,  and  so  it  was  much  more  considerate 
for  her  to  stay  in  bed  and  keep  out  of  Abby's  way. 
This  is  a  comfortable  theory. 

"  I  suppose  you  've  ben  an  early  riser,  though  ? "  said 
Abby,  as  she  poured  the  coffee,  looking  meanwhile 
approvingly  at  the  figure  of  her  guest,  neatly  attired 
in  a  pink  and  white  print  gown,  which  fitted  her  in  a 
truly  astonishing  manner,  proving,  Abby  thought  in 
her  simple  way,  that  it  had  really  been  a  "  leading,"  — 
her  bringing  the  stranger  home  last  night. 

"Oh,  but  yes,"  Marie  answered.  "I  help  always 
Old  Billy  wiz  the  dogs.  First,  they  must  be  exercise, 
and  do  their  tricks,  and  then  they  are  feed.  So  hun- 
gry they  are,  the  dogs !  It  make  very  hard  not  first 
to  feed  them,  hem  ? " 

"  Is  —  William  —  feeble  ?  "  Abby  inquired,  with 
some  hesitation. 

"  Feeble,  no  1 "  said  Marie,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  But 
old,  you  know,  and  when  he  is  too  much  drunk  it  take 
away  his  mind ;  so  then  I  help  him,  that  Le  Boss  does 
not  find  out  that  and  beat  him.  For  he  is  good,  you 
see,  Old  Billy,  and  we  make  comrades  togezzer  always." 

"  Dear  me ! "  said  Abby,  doubtfully.  "  It  don't  seem 
as  if  you  ought  to  be  going  with  —  with  that  kind  of 
person,  Maree.  We  don't  associate  with  drinking  men, 
here  in  these  parts.  I  don't  know  how  it  is  where 
you  come  from." 


34  MARIE. 

Oh,  there,  Marie  said,  it  was  different.  There  the 
drink  did  not  make  men  crazy.  This  was  a  coun- 
try where  the  devil  had  so  much  power,  you  see,  that 
it  made  it  hard  for  poor  folks  like  Old  Billy,  who 
would  do  well  enough  in  her  country,  and  at  the 
worst  take  a  little  too  much  at  a  feast  or  a  wedding. 
But  in  those  cases,  the  saints  took  very  good  care  that 
nothing  should  happen  to  them.  She  did  not  know 
what  the  saints  did  in  this  country,  or  indeed  if  there 
were  any. 

"  Oh,  Maree ! "  cried  Abby,  scandalised.  "  I  guess  I 
wouldn't  talk  like  that,  if  I  was  you.  You  —  you 
ain't  a  papist,  are  you,  —  a  Catholic  ? " 

Oh,  no !  Mere  Jeanne  was  of  the  Eeformed  religion, 
and  had  brought  Marie  up  so.  It  was  a  misfortune, 
Madame  the  Countess  always  said;  but  Marie  pre- 
ferred to  be  as  Mere  Jeanne  had  been.  The  Catholic 
girls  in  the  village  said  that  Mdre  Jeanne  had  gone 
straight  to  the  pit,  but  that  proved  that  they  were 
ignorant  entirely  of  the  things  of  religion.  Why,  Le 
Boss  was  a  Catholic,  he ;  and  everybody  knew  that  he 
had  the  evil  eye,  and  that  it  was  not  safe  to  come 
near  him  without  making  the  horns. 

"For  the  land's  sake!"  cried  Abby  Eock,  dropping 
her  dish-cloth  into  the  sink,  "what  are  you  talking 
about,  child  ? " 

"  But,  the  horns ! n  Marie  answered  innocently, 
"When  a  person  has  the  evil  eye,  you  not  make  at 
him  the  horns,  so  way  ? "  and  she  held  out  the  index 


MARIE.  35 

and  little  finger  of  her  right  hand,  bending  the  other 
fingers  down.  "Sol"  she  said;  "when  they  so  are 
held,  the  evil  eye  has  no  power.  What  you  do  here  to 
stop  him  ?  " 

"  We  don't  believe  in  any  such  a  thing  I "  Abby  re- 
plied, with  some  severity.  "Why,  Maree,  them's  all 
the  same  as  heathen  notions,  like  witchcraft  and  such. 
We  don't  hold  by  none  of  those  things  in  this  country 
at  all,  and  I  guess  you  'd  better  not  talk  about  'em," 

Marie's  eyes  opened  wide.  "But,"  she  said,  "  Jest 
une  chose,  —  it  is  a  thing  that  all  know.  As  for  Le 
Boss,  you  know  —  listen ! "  she  came  nearer  to  Abby, 
and  lowered  her  voice.  "  One  night  Old  Billy  forgot 
to  do,  I  know  not  what,  but  somesing.  So  when  Le 
Boss  found  it  out,  he  look  at  him,  so,"  —  drawing  her 
brows  down  and  frowning  horribly,  with  the  effect  of 
looking  like  an  enraged  kitten,  —  "and  say  nossing 
at  all.  You  see  ? " 

"Well,"  replied  Abby.  "I  suppose  mebbe  he  thought 
it  was  an  accident,  and  might  have  happened  to  any 
one." 

"  Not  —  at  —  all  I "  cried  Marie,  with  dramatic  em- 
phasis, throwing  out  her  hand  with  a  solemn  gesture. 
"  What  happen  that  same  night  ?  Old  Billy  fall  down 
the  bank  and  break  his  leg ! "  She  paused,  and  nodded 
like  a  little  mandarin,  to  point  the  moral  of  her  tale. 

"  Maree  I "  remonstrated  Abby  Eock,  "  don't  tell  me 
you  believe  such  foolishness  as  that !  He  'd  have 
fallen  down  all  the  same  if  nobody  had  looked  anigh 


36  MARIE. 

l?jm.  Why,  good  land!  I  never  heard  of  such 
notions/' 

"  So  it  is ! "  Marie  insisted.  "  Le  Boss  look  at  him, 
and  he  break  his  leg.  I  see  the  break !  Anozer  day," 
she  continued,  "  Coco,  he  is  a  boy  that  makes  tumble, 
and  he  was  hungry,  and  he  took '  a  don't  from  the 
table  to  eat  it  —  " 

"  Took  a  what  ? "  asked  Abby. 

"  A  don't,  what  you  call.  Bound,  wiz  a  hole  to  put 
your  finger!"  explained  Marie.  "Only  in  America 
they  make  zem.  Not  of  such  things  in  Bretagne, 
never.  Coco  took  the  don't,  and  Le  Boss  catch  him, 
and  look  at  him  again,  so !  Well,  yes !  in  two  hour 
he  is  sick,  that  boy,  and  after  zat  for  a  week.  A-a-a-h  ! 
yes,  Le  Boss!  only  at  me  he  not  dare  to  look,  for  I 
have  the  charm,  and  he  know  that,  and  he  is  afraid. 
Aha,  yes,  he  is  afraid  of  Marie  too,  when  he  wish  to 
make  devil  work. 

"  And  here,"  she  cried,  turning  suddenly  upon  Abby, 
"you  say  you  have  no  such  thing,  Abiroc,"  —  this  was 
the  name  she  had  given  her  hostess,  —  "  and  here,  too, 
is  the  evil  eye,  first  what  I  see  in  this  place,  except 
the  dear  little  children.  A  man  yesterday  came  while 
I  played,  and  looked  —  but,  frightful !  Ah  !  "  she 
started  from  her  seat  by  the  window,  and  retreated  has- 
tily to  the  corner.  "  He  comes,  the  same  man !  Put  me 
away,  Abiroc !  put  me  away  !  He  is  bad,  he  is  wicked ! 
I  die  if  he  look  at  me ! "  and  she  ran  hastily  out  of 
the  room,  just  as  Jacques  De  Arthenay  entered  it 


CHAPTER  V. 

COURTSHIP. 

MARIE  could  hardly  be  persuaded  to  come  back 
into  the  sitting-room;  and  when  she  did  at 
length  come,  it  was  only  to  sit  silent  in  the  corner, 
with  one  hand  held  behind  her,  and  her  eyes  fixed 
steadfastly  on  the  floor.  In  vain  Abby  Hock  tried  to 
draw  her  into  the  conversation,  telling  her  how  she, 
Abby,  and  Mr.  De  Arthenay  had  been  talking  about  her, 
and  how  they  thought  she  'd  better  stay  right  on  where 
she  was  for  a  spell,  till  she  was  all  rested  up,  and 
knew  what  she  wanted  to  do.  Mr.  De  Arthenay  would 
be  a  friend  to  her,  and  no  one  could  be  a  better  one, 
as  she'd  find.  But  Marie  only  said  that  Monsieur 
was  very  kind,  and  never  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  De 
Arthenay,  on  his  part,  was  no  more  at  ease.  He  could 
not  take  his  eyes  from  the  slender  figure,  so  shrinking 
and  modest,  or  the  lovely  downcast  face.  He  had  no 
words  to  tell  her  all  that  was  in  his  heart,  nor  would 
he  have  told  it  if  he  could.  It  was  still  a  thing  of  horror 
to  him,  —  a  thing  that  would  surely  be  cast  out  as  soon 
as  he  came  to  himself ;  and  how  better  could  he  bring 
himself  to  his  senses  than  by  facing  this  dream,  this 
possession  of  the  night,  and  crushing  it  down,  putting 
it  out  of  existence  ?  So  he  sat  still,  and  gazed  at  the 


38  MARIE. 

dream,  and  felt  its  reality  in  every  fibre  of  his  being ; 
and  poor  good  Abby  sat  and  talked  for  all  three,  and 
wondered  what  to  goodness  was  coming  of  all  this. 

She  wondered  more  and  more  as  the  days  went  on. 
It  became  evident  to  her  that  De  Arthenay,  her  stern, 
silent  neighbour,  who  had  never  so  much  as  looked  at  a 
woman  before,  was  "  possessed  "  about  her  little  guest. 
Marie,  on  the  other  hand,  continued  to  regard  him  with 
terror,  and  never  failed  to  make  the  horns  secretly 
when  he  appeared;  yet  day  after  day  he  came,  and 
sat  silent  in  the  sitting-room,  and  gazed  at  Marie,  and 
wrestled  with  the  devil  within  him.  He  never  doubted 
that  it  was  the  devil.  There  was  no  awkwardness 
to  him  in  sitting  thus  silent ;  it  was  the  habit  of  his 
life  :  he  spoke  when  he  had  occasion  to  say  anything ; 
for  the  rest,  he  considered  over-much  speech  as  one  of 
the  curses  of  our  fallen  state.  But  Abby  "  felt  as  if 
she  should  fly,"  as  she  expressed  it  to  herself,  while  he 
sat  there.  A  pall  of  silence  seemed  to  descend  upon 
the  room,  generally  so  cheerful:  the  French  girl 
cowered  under  it,  and  seemed  to  shrink  visibly,  like 
a  dumb  creature  in  fright.  And  when  he  was  gone, 
she  would  spring  up  and  run  like  a  deer  to  her  own 
little  room,  and  seize  her  violin,  and  play  passionately, 
the  instrument  crying  under  her  hands,  like  a  living 
creature,  protesting  against  grief,  against  silence  and 
darkness,  and  the  fear  of  something  unknown,  which 
seemed  to  be  growing  out  of  the  silence.  Sometimes 
Abby  thought  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  open 


MARIE.  39 

the  door  of  the  cage,  and  let  the  little  stray  bird 
nutter  out,  as  she  had  fluttered  in  those  few  days  ago, 
by  chance  —  was  it  by  chance  ? 

But  the  bird  was  so  willing  to  stay ;  was  so  happy, 
except  when  that  silent  shadow  fell  upon  the  cheerful 
house ;  so  sweet,  so  grateful  for  little  kindnesses  (and 
who  would  not  be  kind  to  her,  Abby  thought !)  ;  such 
a  singing,  light,  pretty  creature  to  look  at  and  listen 
to  !  and  the  house  had  been  so  quiet  since  mother 
died ;  and  after  all,  it  was  pleasant  to  have  some  one 
to  do  for  and  "  putter  round."  The  neighbours  said, 
There  !  now  Abby  Kock  was  safe  to  live,  for  she  had 
got  another  baby  to  take  care  of ;  she  *d  ha'  withered 
up  and  blown  away  if  she  had  gone  on  living  alone, 
with  no  one  to  make  of. 

And  what  talks  they  had,  Abby  and  Marie!  The 
latter  told  all  about  her  early  childhood  with  the 
good  old  woman  whom  she  called  Mere  Jeanne,  and 
explained  how  she  came  to  have  the  Lady,  and  to 
play  as  she  did.  The  Countess,  it  appeared,  lived 
up  at  the  castle;  a  great  lady,  oh,  but  very  great> 
and  beautiful  as  the  angels.  She  was  alone  there, 
for  the  Count  was  away  on  a  foreign  mission,  and 
she  had  no  child,  the  Countess.  So  one  day  she 
saw  Marie,  when  the  latter  was  bringing  flowers  to 
the  gardener's  wife,  who  was  good  to  her;  and  the 
Countess  called  the  child  to  her,  and  took  her  on 
her  knee,  and  talked  with  her.  Ah,  she  was  good,  the 
Countess,  and  lovely  t  After  that  Marie  was  brought 


40  MARIE. 

to  the  castle  every  day,  and  the  Countess  played  to 
her  of  the  violin,  and  Marie  knew  all  at  once  that 
this  was  the  best  thing  in  the  world,  and  the  dearest, 
and  the  one  to  die  for,  you  understand.  (But  Abby 
did  not  understand  in  the  least.)  So  when  Madame 
the  Countess  saw  how  it  was,  she  taught  Marie,  and 
got  her  the  Lady,  the  violin  which  was  Marie's  life 
and  soul;  and  she  let  come  down  from  Paris  a  great 
teacher,  and  they  all  played  together,  the  Countess 
his  friend,  for  many  years  his  pupil,  and  the  great 
violinist,  and  Marie,  the  little  peasant  girl  in  her 
blue  gown  and  cap.  He  said  she  was  a  born  musi- 
cian, Marie:  of  course,  he  was  able  to  see  things, 
being  of  the  same  nature;  but  Mere  Jeanne  was 
unhappy,  and  said  no  good  would  come  of  it.  Yes, 
well,  what  is  to  be,  you  know,  that  will  be,  and 
nossing  else.  The  great  teacher  died,  and  there  was  an 
end  of  him.  And  after  a  while  Monsieur  the  Count 
came  home,  and  carried  away  the  Countess  to  live 
in  Paris,  and  so  —  and  —  so  —  that  was  all ! 

"But  not  all!"  cried  the  child,  springing  from  her 
seat,  and  raising  her  head,  which  had  drooped  for 
a  moment.  "  Not  all !  for  I  have  the  music,  see, 
Abiroc!  All  days  of  my  life  I  can  make  music, 
make  happy,  make  joy  of  myself  and  ozerbodies. 
When  I  take  her>  Madame,  so,  in  my  hand,  I  can 
do  what  I  wiE,  no  ?  People  have  glad  thinks,  sorry 
thinks;  what  Marie  tells  them  to  have,  that  have 
they.  Ah  /  la  bonne  aventure.  ok  gai ! "  and  she 


MARIE.  41 

would  throw  her  head  back  and  begin  to  play,  and 
play  till  the  chairs  almost  danced  on  their  four  legs. 

De  Arthenay  never  heard  the  fiddle.  Abby  managed 
it  somehow,  she  hardly  knew  how  or  why.  He  had 
never  spoken  about  the  Evil  Thing,  as  he  would  have 
called  it,  since  that  first  day  ;  perhaps  he  thought  that 
Abby  had  taken  it  away,  as  a  pious  church  member 
should,  and  destroyed  it  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
At  all  events  there  was  no  mention  of  it,  and  the 
only  sound  he  heard  when  he  approached  the  house 
was  the  whir  of  Abby's  wheel  (for  women  still  spun 
then,  in  that  part  of  the  country),  or  the  one  voice 
he  cared  to  hear  in  the  world,  uplifted  in  some  light 
godless  song. 

So  things  went  on  for  a  while  ;  and  then  came  a 
change.  One  day  Marie  came  into  the  sitting-room, 
hearing  Abby  call  her.  It  was  the  hour  of  £)e  Arthe- 
nay's  daily  visit,  and  he  sat  silent  in  the  corner,  as 
usual ;  but  Abby  had  an  open  letter  in  her  hand,  and 
was  crying  softly,  with  her  apron  hiding  her  good 
homely  face.  "  Maree,"  said  the  good  woman,  "  I  Ve 
got  bad  news.  My  sister  Lizzie  that  I  Ve  told  you  so 
much  about  she  's  dreadful  sick,  and  I  Ve  got  to  go 
right  out  and  take  care  of  her.  Thank  you,  dear ! " 
(as  she  felt  Marie's  arms  round  her  on  the  instant, 
and  the  soft  voice  murmured  little  French  sympathies 
in  her  ear),  "  you  're  real  good,  I  'm  sure,  and  I  know 
you  feel  for  me.  I  Ve  got  to  go  right  off  to-morrow 
or  next  day,  soon  as  I  can  get  things  to  rights  and 


*  MARIE. 

see  to  the  stock  and  things.  But  what  is  troubling 
me  is  you,  Maree.  I  don  t  see  what  is  to  become  of 
you,  poor  child,  unless  —  Well,  now,  you  come  here 
and  sit  down  by  me,  and  listen  to  what  Mr.  De  Arthe- 
nay  has  to  say  to  you.  You  know  he 's  ben  your  friend, 
Maree,  ever  sence  you  come  ;  so  you  listen  to  him, 
like  a  good  girl/* 

Abby  was  in  great  trouble:  indeed,  she  was  the 
most  agitated  of  the  three,  for  it  was  with  outward 
calm,  at  least,  that  De  Arthenay  spoke;  and  Marie 
listened  quietly,  too,  plaiting  her  apron  between  her 
fingers,  and  forgetting  for  the  moment  to  make  the 
horns  with  her  left  hand.  Briefly,  he  asked  her  to 
be  his  wife ;  to  come  home  with  him,  and  keep  his 
house,  and  share  good  and  evil  with  him.  He  would 
take  care  of  her,  he  said,  and  —  and  —  he  trusted  the 
Lord  would  bless  the  union.  If  his  voice  shook  now 
and  then,  if  he  kept  his  eyes  lowered,  that  neither 
woman  should  see  the  light  and  the  struggle  in  them, 
that  was  his  own  affair ;  he  spoke  quietly  to  the  end, 
and  then  drew  a  long  breath,  feeling  that  he  had 
come  through  better  than  he  had  expected. 

Abby  looked  for  an  outburst  of  some  kind  from 
Marie,  whether  of  tears  or  of  sudden  childish  fear  or 
anger ;  but  neither  came  Marie  thanked  Monsieur, 
and  said  he  was  very  kind,  very  kind  indeed.  She 
would  like  to  think  about  it  a  little,  if  they  pleased ; 
she  would  do  all  she  could  to  please  them,  but  she 
was  very  young,  and  she  would  like  to  take  time,  if 


MARIE.  43 

Monsieur  thought  it  not  wrong;  and  so  rising  from 
her  seat,  she  made  a  little  courtesy,  with  her  eyes 
still  on  the  ground,  and  slipped  away  out  of  the  room, 
and  was  gone. 

The  others  sat  looking  at  each  other,  neither 
ready  to  speak  first.  Finally  Abby  reflected  that 
Jacques  would  not  speak  at  all  unless  she  began,  so 
she  said,  with  a  sigh  between  the  words :  "  I  guess 
it  '11  be  all  right,  Jacques.  It 's  only  proper  that  she 
should  have  time  to  think  it  over,  and  she  such  a 
child.  Not  but  what  it 's  a  great  chance  for  her," 
she  added  hastily.  "  My  !  to  get  a  good  home,  and  a 
good  provider,  as  I  make  no  doubt  you  would  be,  after 
the  life  she's  led.  traipsin'  here  and  there,  and  livin' 
with  darkened  heathens,  or  as  bad.  But  —  but  — 
you  '11  be  kind  to  her,  won't  you,  Jacques  ?  She  — 
she 's  not  a  woman  yet,  in  her  feelin's,  as  you  might 
say.  She  ain't  nothin*  but  a  baby  to  our  girls  about 
here,  that 's  brought  up  to  see  with  their  eyes  and 
talk  with  their  mouths.  You  '11  have  patience  with 
her,  if  her  ways  are  a  good  deal  different  from  what 
you  were  used  to,  along  back  in  your  mother's  time  ?" 

But  here  good  Abby  paused,  for  she  saw  that  De 
Arthenay  heard  not  a  word  of  her  well-meant  discourse. 
He  sat  brooding  in  the  corner,  as  was  his  wont,  but 
with  a  light  in  his  eyes  and  a  color  in  his  cheek  that 
Abby  had  never  seen  before. 

"  Jacques  De  Arthenay,  you  are  fairly  possessed  ! " 
she  said,  in  rather  an  awestruck  voice,  as  he  rose 


44  MARIE. 

abruptly  to  bid  her  good-day.  "  I  don't  believe  you 
can  think  of  anything  except  that  child." 

"  No. more  I  can  ! "  said  the  man,  looking  at  her  with 
bright,  hard  eyes.  "  Nothing  else  !  She  is  my  life  ! " 
and  with  that  he  turned  hastily  to  the  door  and  was 
gone. 

"  His  life ! "  repeated  Abby,  gazing  after  him  as  he 
strode  away  down  the  street.  "Much  like  his  life 
she  is,  the  pretty  creetur !  And  she  saying  that  fiddle 
was  her  life,  only  yesterday  !  How  are  all  these  lives 
going  to  work  together?  that's  what  I  want  to 
know  !  "  And  she  shook  her  head,  and  went  back  to 
her  spinning.  There  was  no  doubt  in  Abby's  mind 
about  Marie's  answer,  when  she  grew  a  little  used  to 
the  new  idea.  Her  silent  suitor  was  many  years  older 
than  she,  it  was  true,  but  as  she  said  to  him,  what  a 
chance  for  the  friendless  wanderer  !  And  if  he  loved 
her  now,  how  much  more  he  would  love  her  when  he 
came  to  know  her  well,  and  see  all  her  pretty  ways 
about  the  house,  like  a  kitten  or  a  bird.  And  she 
would  respect  and  admire  him,  that  was  certain,  Abby 
thought.  He  was  a  pictur'  of  a  man,  when  he  got 
his  store  clothes  on,  and  nobody  had  ever  had  a  word 
to  say  against  him.  He  was  no  talker,  but  some 
thought  that  was  no  drawback  in  the  married  state. 
Abby  remembered  how  Sister  Lizzie's  young  husband 
had  tormented  her  with  foolish  questions  during  the 
week  he  had  spent  with  them  at  the  time  of  the 
marriage  :  a  spruce  young  clerk  from  a  city  store,  not 


MARIE.  45 

knowing  one  end  of  a  hoe  from  the  other,  and  asking 
questions  all  the  time,  and  not  remembering  anything 
you  told  him  long  enough  for  it  to  get  inside  his 
head ;  though  there  was  room  enough  inside  for  con- 
sid'able  many  ideas,  Abby  thought.  Yes,  certainly,  if 
so  be  one  had  to  be  portioned  with  a  husband,  the  one 
that  said  least  would  be  the  least  vexation  in  the  end. 
So  she  was  content,  on  the  whole,  and  glad  that  Marie 
took  it  all  so  quietly  and  sensibly,  and  made  no  doubt 
the  girl  was  turning  it  over  in  her  mind,  and  making 
ready  a  real  pretty  answer  for  Jacques  when  he  called 
the  next  day. 

Yes,  Marie  was  turning  it  over  in  her  mind,  but  not 
just  in  the  way  her  good  hostess  supposed.  Only  one 
thought  came  to  her,  but  that  thought  filled  her  whole 
mind ;  she  must  get  away,  —  away  at  once  from  this 
place,  from  the  stern  man  with  the  evil  eye,  who  wanted 
to  take  her  and  kill  her  slowly,  that  he  might  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  die.  Ah,  she  knew,  Marie ! 
had  she  not  seen  wicked  people  before  ?  But  she 
would  not  tell  Abiroc,  for  it  would  only  grieve  her. 
and  she  would  talk,  talk,  and  Marie  wanted  no  talk- 
ing. She  only  wanted  to  get  away,  out  into  the  open 
fields  once  more,  where  nobody  would  look  at  her  or 
want  to  marry  her,  and  where  roads  might  be  found 
leading  away  to  golden  cities,  full  of  children  who 
liked  to  hear  play  the  violin,  and  who  danced  when 
one  played  it  well 

Early  next  morning,  while  Abby  was  out  milking 


46  MARIE. 

the  cows,  Marie  stole  away.  She  put  on  her  little 
blue  gown  again ;  ah !  how  old  and  faded  it  looked 
beside  the  fresh,  pretty  prints  that  Abby  would  always 
have  her  wear !  But  it  was  her  own,  and  when  she 
had  it  on,  and  the  old  handkerchief  tied  under  her 
chin  once  more,  and  Madame  in  her  box,  ready  to  go 
with  her  the  world  over,  why,  then  she  felt  that  she 
was  Marie  once  more  ;  that  this  had  all  been  a  mis- 
take, this  sojourn  among  the  strange,  kind  people  who 
spoke  so  loud  and  through  such  long  noses  ;  that  now 
her  life  was  to  begin,  as  she  had  really  meant  it  to 
begin  when  she  ran  away  from  Le  Boss  and  his 
hateful  tyranny. 

Out  she  slipped,  in  the  sweet,  fresh  morning.  No 
one  saw  her  go,  for  the  village  was  a  busy  place  at  all 
times,  and  at  this  early  hour  every  man  and  woman 
was  busy  in  barn  or  kitchen.  At  one  house  a  child 
knocked  at  the  .window,  a  child  for  whom  she  had 
played  and  sung  many  times.  He  stood  there  in  his 
little  red  nightgown,  and  nodded  and  laughed;  and 
Marie  nodded  back,  smiling,  and  wondered  if  he  would 
ever  run  away,  and  ever  know  how  good,  how  good  it 
was,  to  be  alone,  with  no  one  else  in  the  world  to  say, 
"  Do  this  !  "  or  "  Do  that !  "  Just  as  she  came  out,  the 
sun  rose  over  the  hill,  and  looking  at  the  fiery  ball, 
Marie  perceived  that  it  danced  in  the  sky.  Yes,  as- 
suredly, so  it  was !  There  was  the  same  wavering 
motion  that  she  had  seen  on  every  fair  Easter  Day 
that  she  could  remember.  She  thought  how  Mere 


MARIE.  47 

Jeanne  had  first  called  her  attention  to  it,  when  she 
was  little,  little,  just  able  to  toddle,  and  had  told  her 
that  the  sun  danced  so  on  Easter  Morning,  for  joy 
that  the  Good  Lord  had  risen  from  the  dead ;  and  so 
it  was  a  lesson  for  us  all,  and  we  must  dance  on  Easter 
Day,  if  we  never  danced  all  the  rest  of  the  year.  Ah, 
how  they  danced  at  home  there  in  the  village  !  But 
now,  it  was  not  Easter  at  all,  and  yet  the  sun  danced ; 
what  should  it  mean  ?  And  it  came  to  Marie's  mind 
that  perhaps  the  Good  Lord  had  told  it  to  dance,  for 
a  sign  to  her  that  all  would  go  well,  and  that  she  was 
doing  quite  right  to  run  away  from  persons  with  the 
evil  eye.  When  you  came  to  think  of  it,  what  was 
more  probable  ?  They  always  said,  those  girls  in  the 
village,  that  the  saints  did  the  things  they  asked  them 
to  do.  When  Barbe  lost  her  gold  earring,  did  not  Saint 
Anthony  find  it  for  her,  and  tell  her  to  look  among  the 
potato-parings  that  had  been  thrown  out  the  day  before  ? 
and  there,  sure  enough,  it  was,  and  the  pigs  never 
touching  it,  because  they  had  been  told  not  to  touch ! 
Well,  and  if  the  saints  could  do  that,  it  would  be  a  pity 
indeed  if  the  Good  Lord  could  not  make  the  sun  dance 
when  he  felt  like  doing  a  kind  thing  for  a  poor  girl. 

With  the  dazzle  of  that  dancing  sun  still  in  her  eyes, 
with  happy  thoughts  filling  her  mind,  Marie  turned 
the  corner  of  the  straggling  road  that  was  called  a 
street  by  the  people  who  lived  along  it,  —  turned  the 
corner,  and  almost  fell  into  the  arms  of  a  man, 
who  was  coming  in  the  opposite  direction.  Both 


48  MARIE. 

uttered  a  cry  at  the  same  moment :  Marie  first  giving 
a  little  startled  shriek,  but  her  voice  dying  away  in 
terrified  silence  as  she  saw  the  man's  face ;  the  latter 
uttering  a  shout  of  delight,  of  fierce  and  cruel  triumph, 
that  rang  out  strangely  in  the  quiet  morning  air.  For 
this  was  Le  Boss  ! 

A  man  with  a  bloated,  cruel  face,  sodden  with  drink 
and  inflamed  with  all  fiercer  and  inhuman  passions ;  a 
strong  man,  who  held  the  trembling  girl  by  the 
shoulder  as  if  she  were  a  reed,  and  gazed  into  her  face 
with  eyes  of  fiendish  triumph;  an  angry  man,  who 
poured  out  a  torrent  of  furious  words,  reproaching, 
threatening,  by  turns,  as  he  found  his  victim  once  more 
within  his  grasp,  just  when  he  had  given  up  all  hope 
of  finding  her  again.  Ah,  but  he  had  her  now,  though  ! 
let  her  try  it  again,  to  run  away  !  she  would  find  even 
this  time  that  she  had  enough,  but  another  time  — 
and  on  and  on,  as  a  coarse  and  brutal  man  can  go  on 
to  a  helpless  creature  that  is  wholly  in  his  power. 

Marie  was  silent,  cowering  in  his  grasp,  looking 
about  with  hunted,  despairing  eyes.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  do,  no  word  to  say  that  would  help.  It  had  all 
been  a  mistake,  —  the  sun  dancing,  the  heavens  bend- 
ing down  to  aid  and  cheer  her,  —  all  had  been  a  mis- 
take, a  lie.  There  was  nothing  now  for  the  rest  of  her 
life  but  this,  —  this  brutality  that  clutched  and  shook 
her  slender  figure,  this  hatred  that  hissed  venomous 
words  in  her  ear.  This  was  the  end,  forever,  till  death 
should  come  to  set  her  free. 


MARIE.  49 

But  what  was  this  ?  what  was  happening  ?  For  the 
hateful  voice  faltered,  the  grasp  on  her  shoulder  weak- 
ened, the  blaze  of  the  fierce  eyes  turned  from  her.  A 
cry  was  heard,  a  wild,  inarticulate  cry  of  rage,  of  defi- 
ance ;  the  next  moment  something  rushed  past  her  like 
a  flash ;  there  was  a  brief  struggle,  a  shout,  an  oath, 
then  a  heavy  fall.  When  the  bewildered  child  could 
clear  her  eyes  from  the  mist  of  fright  that  clouded 
them,  Le  Boss  was  lying  on  the  ground ,  and  tower- 
ing over  him  like  an  avenging  spirit,  his  blue  eyes 
aflame,  his  strong  hands  clenched  for  another  blow, 
stood  Jacques  De  Arthenay. 

Just  what  happened  next,  Marie  never  quite  knew. 
Words  were  said  as  in  a  dream.  Was  it  a  real 
voice  that  was  saying :  "  This  is  my  wife,  you  dog ! 
take  yourself  out  of  my  sight,  before  worse  comes 
to  you!"  Was  it  real?  and  did  Le  Boss,  gather- 
ing himself  up  from  the  grass  with  foul  curses, 
too  horrible  to  think  of  —  did  he  make  reply  that 
she  was  his  property,  that  he  had  bought  her,  paid 
for  her,  and  would  have  his  own  ?  And  then  the 
other  voice  again,  saying,  "  I  tell  you  she  is  my 
wife,  the  wife  of  a  free  man.  Speak,  Mary,  and 
tell  him  you  are  my  wife ! "  And  did  she  —  with 
those  blue  eyes  on  her,  \vhich  she  had  never  met 
before,  but  which  now  caught  and  chained  her  gaze, 
so  that  she  could  not  look  away,  try  as  she  might  — 
did  she  of  her  own  free  will  answer,  "  Yes,  Monsieur, 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  say  it ;  if  you  will  keep  me 

4 


50  MARIE. 

from  him,  Monsieur!"  Then  —  Marie  did  not  know 
what  came  then.  There  were  more  words  between 
the  two  men,  loud  and  fierce  on  one  side,  low  and 
fierce  on  the  other;  and  then  Le  Boss  was  gone,  and 
she  was  walking  back  to  the  house  with  the  man 
who  had  saved  her,  the  man  to  whom  she  belonged 
now ;  the  strong  man,  whose  hand,  holding  hers  as 
they  walked,  trembled  far  more  than  her  own.  But 
Marie  did  not  feel  as  if  she  should  ever  tremble 
again.  For  that  one  must  be  alive,  must  have 
strength  in  one's  limbs;  and  was  she  dead,  she 
wondered,  or  only  asleep  ?  and  would  she  wake  up 
some  happy  moment,  and  find  herself  in  the  little 
white  bed  at  Abiroc's  house,  or  better  still,  out  in 
the  blessed  fields,  alone  with  the  birds  under  the 
free  sky? 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WEDLOCK. 

r  I  ^HEY  were  married  that  very  day.  Abby  begged 
-*-  piteously  for  a  little  delay,  that  she  might 
make  clothes,  and  give  her  pretty  pet  a  "  good  send- 
off;"  but  De  Arthenay  would  not  hear  of  it.  Mary 
was  his  wife  in  the  sight  of  God;  let  her  become 
so  in  the  sight  of  man !  So  a  white  gown  was  found 
and  put  on  the  little  passive  creature,  and  good 
Abby,  crying  with  excitement,  twined  some  flowers 
in  the  soft  dark  hair,  and  thought  that  even  Sister 
Lizzie,  in  her  blue  silk  dress  and  chip  bonnet,  had  not 
made  so  lovely  a  bride  as  this  stranger,  this  wander- 
ing child  from  no  one  knew  where.  The  wedding 
took  place  in  Abby's  parlor,  with  only  Abby  her- 
self and  a  single  neighbour  for  witnesses.  A  little 
crowd  gathered  round  the  door,  however,  to  see  how 
Jacques  De  Arthenay  looked  when  he  'd  made  a  fool 
of  himself,  as  they  expressed  it.  They  were  in 
a  merry  mood,  the  friendly  neighbours,  and  had  sun- 
dry jests  ready  to  crack  upon  the  bridegroom  when 
he  should  appear;  but  when  he  finally  stood  in  the 
doorway,  with  the  little  pale  bride  on  his  arm, 
it  became  apparent  that  jests  were  not  in  order 


52  MARIE. 

People  calculated  that  Jacques  was  in  one  of  hie 
moods,  and  was  best  not  to  be  spoke  with  just  that 
moment ;  besides,  't  was  no  time  for  them  to  be  Titerin' 
round  staring,  with  all  there  was  to  be  done.  So 
the  crowd  melted  away,  and  only  Abby  followed 
the  new-married  couple  to  their  own  home.  She, 
walking  behind  in  much  perturbation  of  spirit,  noticed 
that  on  the  threshold  Marie  stumbled,  and  seemed 
about  to  fall,  and  that  Jacques  lifted  her  in  his 
arms  as  if  she  were  a  baby,  and  carried  her  into 
the  room.  He  had  not  seemed  to  notice  till  that 
moment  that  the  child  was  carrying  her  violin-case, 
though  to  be  sure  it  was  plain  enough  to  see ;  but 
as  he  lifted  her,  it  struck  against  the  door-jamb,  and 
he  glanced  down  and  saw  it.  When  Abby  came  in 
(for  this  was  to  be  her  good-by  to  them,  as  she  was 
to  leave  that  afternoon  for  her  sister's  home),  De 
Arthenay  had  the  case  in  his  hand,  and  was  speak- 
ing in  low,  earnest  tones. 

"  You  cannot  have  this  thing,  Mary  !  It  is  a  thing 
of  evil,  and  may  not  be  in  a  Christian  household 
You  are  going  to  leave  all  those  things  behind  you 
now,  and  there  must  be  nothing  to  recall  that  life 
with  those  bad  people.  I  will  burn  the  evil  thing 
now,  and  it  shall  be  a  sweet  savour  to  the  Lord,  even 
a  marriage  sacrifice."  As  he  spoke  he  opened  the 
case,  and  taking  out  the  violin,  laid  it  across  his 
knee,  intending  to  break  it  into  pieces ;  but  at  this 
Marie  broke  out  into  a  cry,  so  wild,  so  piercing,  that 


MARIE,  53 

he  paused,  and  Abby  ran  to  her  and  took  her  in 
her  arms,  and  pressed  her  to  her  kind  breast,  and 
comforted  her  as  one  comforts  a  little  child.  Then 
she  turned  to  the  stern-eyed  bridegroom. 

;<  Jacques,"  she  pleaded,  "  don't  do  it !  don't  do  such 
a  thing  on  your  wedding-day,  if  you  have  a  heart  in 
you.  Don't  you  see  how  she  feels  it  ?  Put  the  fiddle 
away,  if  you  don't  want  it  round ;  put  it  up  garret,  and 
let  it  lay  there,  till  she 's  wonted  a  little  to  doing  with- 
out it,  Take  it  now  out  of  her  sight  and  your  own, 
Jacques  De  Arthenay,  or  you  '11  be  sorry  for  it  when 
you  have  done  a  mischief  you  can't  undo." 

Abby  wondered  afterward  what  power  had  spoken 
in  her  voice ;  it  must  have  had  some  unusual  force, 
for  De  Arthenay,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  did  as 
ahe  bade  him,  —  turned  slowly  and  left  the  room,  and 
the  next  moment  was  heard  mounting  the  garret 
stairs.  While  he  was  gone,  she  still  held  Marie  in 
her  arms,  and  begged  her  not  to  tremble  so,  and  told 
her  that  her  husband  was  a  good  man,  a  kind  maUj 
that  he  had  never  hurt  any  one  in  his  life  except  evil- 
doers, and  had  been  a  good  son  and  a  good  brother 
to  his  own  people  while  they  lived.  Then  she  bade 
the  child  look  around  at  her  new  home,  and  see 
how  neat  and  good  everything  was,  and  how  taste- 
fully Jacques  had  arranged  it  all  for  her.  "  Why, 
he  vallies  the  ground  you  step  on,  child!"  she  cried. 
"You  don't  want  to  be  afraid  of  him,  dear.  You 
can  do  anything  you're  a  mind  to  with  him,  I  tell 


54  MARIE. 

you.  See  them  flowers  there,  in  the  chaney  bowl  \ 
Now  he  never  looked  at  a  flower  in  his  life,  Jacques 
did  n't ;  but  knowing  you  set  by  them,  he  went  out 
and  picked  them  pretty  ones  o'  purpose.  Now  T 
call  that  real  thoughtful,  don't  you,  Maree  ? " 

So  the  good  soul  talked  on,  soothing  the  girl,  who 
said  no  word,  only  trembled,  and  gazed  at  her  witb 
wide,  frightened  eyes ;  but  Abby's  heart  was  heavy 
within  her,  and  she  hardly  heard  her  own  cheery  words. 
What  kind  of  union  was  this  likely  to  be,  with  such 
a  beginning  ?  Why  had  she  not  realised,  before  it  was 
too  late,  how  set  Jacques  was  in  his  ways,  and  how  he 
never  would  give  in  to  the  heathen  notions  and  fid- 
dling  ways  of  the  foreign  child? 

Sadly  the  good  woman  bade  farewell  to  the  bridal 
couple,  and  left  them  alone  in  their  new  home.  On 
the  threshold  she  turned  back  for  a  moment,  and  had 
a  moment's  comfort ;  for  Jacques  had  taken  Marie's 
hands  in  his  own,  and  was  gazing  at  her  with  such 
love  in  his  eyes  that  it  must  have  melted  a  stone,  Abby 
thought;  and  perhaps  Marie  thought  so  too,  for  she 
forgot  to  make  the  horns,  and  smiled  back,  a  little 
faint  piteous  smile,  into  her  husband's  face. 

So  Abby  went  away  to  the  West,  to  tend  her  sister; 
and  Jacques  and  Marie  De  Arthenay  began  their  life 
together. 

It  was  not  so  very  terrible,  Marie  found  after  a 
while=  Of  course  a  person  could  not  always  help  it, 


MARIE.  55 

to  have  the  evil  eye ;  it  had  happened  that  even  the 
best  of  persons  had  it,  and  sometimes  without  knowing 
it.  The  Catholic  girls  at  home  in  the  village  had  a 
saint  who  always  carried  her  eyes  about  in  a  plate 
because  they  were  evil,  and  she  was  afraid  of  hurting 
some  one  with  them.  (Poor  Saint  Lucia !  this  is  a  new 
rendering  of  thy  martyrdom !)  Yes,  indeed  !  Marie 
was  no  Catholic,  but  she  had  seen  the  picture,  and 
knew  that  it  was  so.  And  oh,  he  did  mean  to  be  kind, 
her  husband  !  that  saw  itself  more  and  more  plainly 
every  day. 

Then,  there  was  great  pleasure  in  the  housekeeping. 
Marie  was  a  born  housewife,  with  delicate  French  hands, 
and  an  inborn  skill  in  cookery,  the  discovery  of  which 
gave  her  great  delight.  Everything  in  the  kitchen  was 
fresh  and  clean  and  sweet,  and  in  the  garden  were  fruits, 
currants  and  blackberries  and  raspberries,  and  every 
kind  of  vegetable  that  grew  in  the  village  at  home,  with 
many  more  that  were  strange  to  her.  She  found  never- 
ending  pleasure  in  concocting  new  dishes,  little  triumphs 
of  taste  and  daintiness,  and  trying  them  on  her  silent 
husband.  Sometimes  he  did  not  notice  them  at  all,  but 
ate  straight  on,  not  knowing  a  delicate  fricassee  from  a 
junk  of  salt  beef  ;  that  was  very  trying.  But  again  he 
would  take  notice,  and  smile  at  her  with  the  rare  sweet 
smile  for  which  she  was  beginning  to  watch,  and  praise 
the  prettiness  and  the  flavor  of  what  was  set  before  him. 
But  sometimes,  too,  dreadful  things  happened.  One  day 
Marie  had  tried  her  very  best,  and  had  produced  a  dish 


56  MARIE. 

for  supper  of  which  she  was  justly  proud,  —  a  little 
friture  of  lamb,  delicate  golden-brown,  with  crimson 
beets  and  golden  carrots,  cut  in  flower-shapes,  neatly 
ranged  around.  Such  a  pretty  dish  was  never  seen, 
she  thought ;  and  she  had  put  it  on  the  best  platter, 
the  blue  platter  with  the  cow  and  the  strawberries  on 
it ;  and  when  she  set  it  before  her  husband,  her  dark 
eyes  were  actually  shining  with  pleasure,  and  she  was 
thinking  that  if  he  were  very  pleased,  but  very,  very, 
she  might  possibly  have  courage  to  call  him  "  Mon 
ami,"  which  she  had  thought  several  times  of  doing. 
It  had  such  a  friendly  sound,  "  Mon  ami ! " 

But  alas !  when  De  Arthenay  came  to  the  table  he 
was  in  one  of  his  dark  moods  ;  and  when  his  eyes  fell 
on  the  festal  dish,  he  started  up,  crying  out  that  the 
devil  was  tempting  him,  and  that  he  and  his  house 
should  be  lost  through  the  wiles  of  the  flesh ;  and  so 
caught  up  the  dish  and  flung  it  on  the  fire,  and  bade 
his  trembling  wife  bring  him  a  crust  of  dry  bread. 
Poor  Marie !  she  was  too  frightened  to  cry.  though  all 
her  woman's  soul  was  in  arms  at  the  destruction  of 
good  food,  to  say  nothing  of  the  wound  to  her  house- 
wifely pride.  She  sat  silent,  eating  nothing,  only  making 
believe,  when  her  husband  looked  her  way,  to  crumble 
a  bit  of  bread.  And  when  that  wretched  meal  was 
over,  Jacques  called  her  to  his  side,  and  took  out  the 
great  black  Bible,  and  read  three  chapters  of  denunci- 
ation from  Jeremiah,  that  made  Marie's  blood  chill 
in  her  veins,  and  sent  her  shivering  to  her  bed.  The 


MARIE.  57 

next  day  he  would  eat  nothing  but  Indian  meal 
porridge,  and  the  next;  and  it  was  a  week  before 
Marie  ventured  to  try  any  more  experiments  in 
cookery. 

Marie  had  a  great  dread  of  the  black  Bible.  She 
was  sure  it  was  a  different  Bible  from  the  one 
which  Mere  Jeanne  used  to  read  at  home,  for  that 
was  full  of  lovely  things,  while  this  was  terrible 
Sometimes  Jacques  would  call  her  to  him  and  question 
her,  and  that  was  really  too  frightful  for  anything. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  reading  aloud,  as  he  was  fond  of 
doing  in  the  evenings,  some  denunciatory  passage  from 
the  psalms  or  the  prophets.  "  Mary,"  he  would  say, 
turning  to  her,  as  she  sat  with  her  knitting  in  the 
corner,  "  what  do  you  think  of  that  passage  ? " 

"I  think  him  horreebl', "  Marie  would  answer. 
"Why  do  you  read  of  such  things,  Jacques  ?  Why  you 
not  have  the  good  Bible,  as  we  have  him  in  France, 
why  ? " 

"  There  is  but  one  Bible,  Mary,  but  one  in  the  world  ; 
and  it  is  all  good  and  beautiful,  only  our  sinful  eyes 
cannot  always  see  the  glory  of  it." 

"  Ah,  but  no ! "  Marie  would  persist,  shaking  her 
head  gravely,  "M£re  Jeanne's  Bible  was  all  ozer, 
so  I  tell  you.  Not  black  and  horreebl',  no !  but  red,  all 
red,  wiz  gold  on  him,  and  in  his  side  pictures,  all  blight 
and  preetty,  and  good  words,  good  ones,  what  make  the 
good  feel  in  my  side.  Yes,  that  is  the  Bible  I  have 
liked." 


58  MARIE. 

"  Mary.  I  tell  you  it  was  no  Bible,  unless  it  was 
this  very  one.  They  bind  it  in  any  colour  they  like, 
don't  you  see,  child  ?  It  is  n't  the  cover  that  makes  the 
book.  I  fear  you  weren't  brought  up  a  Christian, 
Mary,  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  think  of,  my  poor  little 
wifec  You  must  let  me  teach  you ;  you  must  talk 
with  Elder  Beach  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Assuredly 
he  will  help  you,  if  I  am  found  unworthy." 

But  Marie  would  have  none  of  this.  She  was  a 
Christian,  she  maintained  as  stoutly  as  her  great  fear 
of  her  husband  would  permit.  She  had  been  baptized, 
and  taught  all  that  one  should  be  taught.  But  it  was 
all  different.  Her  Bible  told  that  we  must  love  people, 
but  love  everybody,  always,  all  times ;  and  this  black 
book  said  that  we  must  kill  them  with  swords,  and  dash 
them  against  stones,  and  pray  bad  things  to  happen  to 
them.  It  stood  to  reason  that  it  was  not  the  same  Bible, 
Jiein  ?  At  this  Jacques  De  Arthenay  started,  and  took 
himself  by  the  hair  with  both  hands,  as  he  did  when 
something  moved  him  strongly.  "  Those  were  bad  peo- 
ple, Mary  ! "  he  cried.  "  Don't  you  see  ?  they  withstood 
the  Elect,  and  they  were  slain.  And  we  must  think 
about  these  things,  and  think  of  our  sins,  and  the  sins 
of  others  as  a  warning  to  ourselves.  Sin  is  awful,  black, 
horrible  !  and  its  wages  is  death,  —  death,  do  you  hear  ? " 

When  he  cried  out  in  this  way,  like  a  wild  creature, 
Marie  did  not  dare  to  speak  again;  but  she  would 
murmur  under  her  breath  in  French,  as  she  bent 
lower  -over  her  knitting, "  Nevertheless,  Mere  Jeanne's 


MARIE.  59 

good  Lord  was  good,  and  yours  — ";  and  then  she 
would  quietly  turn  a  hairpin  upside  down  in  her  hair, 
for  it  was  quite  certain  that  if  she  caught  Jacques's 
eye  when  he  was  in  this  mood,  her  hand  would  wither, 
or  her  hair  fall  out,  or  at  the  very  least  the  cream 
all  sour  in  the  pans ;  and  when  one's  hands  were 
righteously  busy,  as  with  knitting,  one  might  make  the 
horns  with  other  things,  and  a  hairpin  was  very  useful. 
She  wished  she  had  a  little  coral  hand,  such  as  she 
had  once  seen  at  a  fair,  with  the  fingers  making  the 
horns  in  the  proper  manner  ;  it  would  be  a  great  con- 
venience, she  thought  with  a  sigh. 

But  he  was  always  sorry  after  these  dark  times; 
and  when  he  sat  and  held  her  hand,  as  he  did  some- 
times, silent  for  the  most  part,  but  gazing  at  her  with 
eyes  of  absolute,  unspeakable  love,  Marie  was  pleased, 
almost  content :  as  nearly  content  as  one  could  be 
with  the  half  of  one's  life  taken  away. 


CHAPTEE   VIL 

LOOKING    BACK. 

THE  half  of  a  life !  for  so  Marie  counted  the  loss 
of  her  violin.  She  never  spoke  of  this  —  to  whom 
should  she  speak  ?  In  her  husband's  eyes  it  was  a 
thing  accursed,  she  knew.  She  almost  hoped  he  had 
forgotten  about  the  precious  treasure  that  lay  so  quietly 
in  some  dark  nook  in  the  lonely  garret ;  for  as  long  as 
he  did  not  think  of  it,  it  was  safe  there,  and  she  should 
not  feel  that  terrible  anguish  that  had  seemed  to  rend 
body  and  soul  when  she  saw  him  lay  the  violin  across 
his  knee  to  break  it.  And  Abby  came  not,  and  gave 
no  sign  ;  and  there  was  no  one  else. 

She  saw  little  of  the  neighbours  at  first.  The  women 
looked  rather  askance  at  her,  and  thought  her  little 
better  than  a  fool,  even  if  she  had  contrived  to  make 
one  of  Jacques  De  Arthenay.  She  never  seemed  to 
understand  their  talk,  and  had  a  way  of  looking  past 
them,  as  if  unaware  of  their  presence,  that  was  dis- 
concerting, when  one  thought  well  of  oneself.  But 
Marie  was  not  a  fool,  only  a  child ;  and  she  did  not 
look  at  the  women  simply  because  she  was  not  think- 
ing of  them.  With  the  children,  however,  it  was 
different,  Marie  felt  that  she  would  have  a  great  deal 


MA  R1E,  61 

to  say  to  the  children,  if  only  she  had  the  half  of  hei 
that  could  talk  to  them.  Ah,  how  she  would  speak, 
with  Madame  on  her  arm !  What  wonders  she  could 
tell  them,  of  fairies  and  witches,  of  flowers  that  sang 
and  birds  that  danced!  But  this  other  part  of  her 
was  shy,  and  she  did  not  feel  that  she  had  anything 
worth  saying  to  the  little  ones,  who  looked  at  her  with 
half-frightened,  half-inviting  eyes  when  they  passed 
her  door,  By-and-by,  however,  she  mustered  up  cour- 
age, and  called  one  or  two  of  them  to  her,  and  gave 
them  flowers  from  her  little  garden.  Also  a  pot  of 
jam  with  a  spoon  in  it  proved  an  eloquent  argument 
in  favour  of  friendship ;  and  after  a  while  the  children 
fell  into  a  way  of  sauntering  past  with  backward 
glances,  and  were  always  glad  to  come  in  when  Marie 
knocked  on  the  window,  or  came  smiling  to  the  door, 
with  her  handkerchief  tied  under  her  chin  and  her 
knitting  in  her  hand.  It  was  only  when  her  husband 
was  away  that  this  happened;  Marie  would  not  for 
worlds  have  called  a  child  to  meet  her  husband's  eyes, 
those  blue  eyes  of  which  she  stood  in  such  terror,  even 
when  she  grew  to  love  them. 

One  little  boy  in  particular  came  often,  when  the 
first  shyness  had  worn  away.  He  was  an  orphan,  like 
Marie  herself :  a  pretty,  dark-eyed  little  fellow,  who 
looked,  she  fancied,  like  the  children  .at  home  in 
France.  He  did  not  expect  her  to  talk  and  answer 
questions,  but  was  content  to  sit,  as  she  loved  to  do, 
gazing  at  the  trees  or  the  clouds  that  went  sailing  by. 


62  MARIE. 

only  now  and  then  uttering  a  few  quiet  words  that 
seemed  in  harmony  with  the  stillness  all  around.  I 
have  said  that  Jacques  De  Arthenay's  house  lay  some- 
what apart  from  the  village  street.  It  was  a  pleasant 
house,  long  and  low,  painted  white,  with  vines  trained 
over  the  lower  part.  Directly  opposite  was  a  pine 
grove,  and  here  Marie  and  her  little  friend  loved  to  sit, 
listening  to  the  murmur  of  the  wind  in  the  dark 
feathery  branches.  It  was  the  sound  of  the  sea,  Marie 
told  little  Petie.  As  to  how  it  got  there,  that  was  an- 
other matter  ;  but  it  was  undoubtedly  the  sound  of  the 
sea,  for  she  had  been  at  sea,  and  recognised  it  at  once. 

"  What  does  it  say  ? "  asked  the  child  one  day, 

"Of  words,"  said  Marie,  "I  hear  not  any,  Petie. 
But  it  wants  always  somesing,  do  you  hear?  It  is 
hongry  always,  and  makes  moans  for  the  sorry  thinks 
it  has  in  its  heart." 

"I  am  hungry  in  my  stomach,  not  in  my  heart/" 
objected  Petie. 

But  Marie  nodded  her  head  sagely.  "Yes,"  she 
said.  "  It  is  that  you  know  not  the  deeference,  Petie, 
bit-ween  those.  To  be  hongry  at  the  stomach,  that 
is  made  better  when  you  eat  cakes,  do  you  see,  or 
potaioQS.  But  when  the  heart  is  hongry,  then  —  ah, 
yes,  that  is  ozer  thing."  And  she  nodded  again,  and 
glanced  up  at  the  attic  window,  and  sighed. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  spoke  of  her  past  life ; 
but  when  she  found  that  Petie  had  no  sharp-eyed 
mother  at  home,  only  a  deaf  great-aunt  who  asked  no 


MARIE.  63 

questions,  she  began  to  give  him  little  glimpses  of  the 
circus  world,  which  filled  him  with  awe  and  rapture. 
It  was  hardly  a  real  circus,  only  a  little  strolling 
troupe,  with  some  performing  dogs,  and  a  few  trained 
horses  and  ponies,  and  two  tight-rope  dancers ;  then 
there  were  two  other  musicians,  and  Marie  herself, 
besides  Le  Boss  and  his  family,  and  Old  Billy,  who 
took  care  of  the  horses  and  did  the  dirty  work.  It 
was  about  the  dogs  that  Petie  liked  best  to  hear: 
of  the  wonderful  feats  of  Monsieur  George,  the  great 
brindled  greyhound,  and  the  astonishing  sagacity  of 
Coquelicot,  the  poodle. 

"Monsieur  George,  he  could  jump  over  anything, 
yes !  He  was  always  jump,  jump,  all  day  long,  to 
practise  himself.  Over  our  heads  all,  that  was  noth- 
ing, yet  he  did  it  always  when  we  come  in  the  tent, 
pour  saluer,  to  say  the  how  you  do.  But  one  day 
come  in  a  man  to  see  Le  Boss,  very  tall,  oh,  like 
mountains,  and  on  him  a  tall  hat.  And  Monsieur 
George,  he  not  stopped  to  measure  with  his  eye,  for 
fear  he  be  too  late  with  the  politesse,  and  he  jump,  and 
carry  away  the  man's  hat,  and  knock  him  down  and 
come  plomp,  down  on  him.  Yes,  very  funny  !  The 
man  got  a  bottle  in  his  hat,  and  that  break,  and  run 
all  over  him,  and  he  say,  oh,  he  say  all  things  what 
you  think  of.  But  Monsieur  George  was  so  'shamed, 
he  go  away  and  hide,  and  not  for  a  week  we  see  him 
again.  Le  Boss  think  that  man  poison  him,  and  he 
goes  to  beat  him ;  but  that  same  day  Monsieur  George 


64  MARIE. 

come  back,  and  stop  outside  the  tent  and  call  us  all  to 
come  out.  And  when  we  come,  he  run  back,  and  say, 
'Look  here,  what  T  do!1  and  he  jump,  and  go  clean 
over  the  tent,  and  not  touch  him  wiz  his  foot.  Yes,  I 
saw  it :  very  fine  dog,  Monsieur  George !  But  Coquel- 
icot,  he  have  more  thinking  than  Monsieur  George. 
He  very  claiver,  Coquelicot !  Some  of  zem  think  him 
a  witch,  but  I  think  not  that.  He  have  minds,  that 
was  all.  But  his  legs  so  short,  and  that  make  him 
hate  Monsieur  George." 

"  My  legs  are  short,"  objected  Petie,  stretching  out  a 
pair  of  plump  calves,  "  but  that  does  n't  make  me  hate 
people." 

"  Ah,  but  if  you  see  a  little  boy  what  can  walk  ovei 
the  roof  of  the  house,  you  want  the  same  to  do  it, 
riest-ce-pas  ? "  cried  Marie.  "  You  try,  and  try,  and 
when  you  cannot  jump,  you  think  that  not  a  so  nize 
little  boy  as  when  his  legs  were  short.  So  boy,  so  dog. 
Coquelicot,  all  his  life  he  want  to  jump  like  Monsieur 
George,  and  all  his  life  he  cannot  jump  at  all.  You 
say  to  him,  •  Coquelicot,  are  you  foolishness  ?  you  can 
do  feefty  things  and  George  not  one  of  zem :  you  can 
read  the  letters,  and  find  the  things  in  the  pocket,  and 
play  the  ins£rwment,  and  sing  the  tune  to  make  die 
people  of  laughing,  yet  you  are  not  content.  Let  him 
have  in  peace  his  legs,  Monsieur  George,  then  I  But 
no  I  and  every  time  Monsieur  George  come  down  from 
the  great  jump,  Coquelicot  is  ready,  and  bite  his  legs 
so  hard  what  he  can." 


MARIE.  65 

Petie  laughed  outright.  "  I  think  that 's  awful 
funny !"  he  said.  "  I. say,  Mis'  De  Arthenay,  I  M  like 
to  seen  him  bite  his  legs.  Did  he  holler  ? " 

"  Monsieur  George  ?  He  cry,  and  go  to  his  bed. 
All  the  dogs,  they  afraid  of  Coquelicot,  because  he 
have  the  minds.  And  he,  Coquelicot,  he  fear  nossing, 
except  Madame  when  she  is  angry." 

"  Who  was  she  ? "  asked  Petie,  —  "a  big  dog  ? " 

"  Ah,  dog,  no ! "  cried  Marie,  her  face  flushing. 
ft  Madame  my  violon,  my  life,  my  pleasure,  my  friend. 
Ah,  mon  Dieu,  what  friend  have  I  ? "  Her  breast 
heaved,  and  she  broke  into  a  wild  fit  of  crying,  forget- 
ting the  child  by  her  side,  forgetting  everything  in  the 
world  save  the  hunger  at  her  heart  for  the  one  creature 
to  whom  she  could  speak,  and  who  could  speak  in  turn 
to  her. 

Petie  sat  silent,  frightened  at  the  sudden  storm  of 
sobs  and  tears.  What  had  he  done,  he  wondered  ?  At 
length  he  mustered  courage  to  touch  his  friend's  arm 
softly  with  his  little  hand 

"  I  did  n't  go  to  do  it ! "  he  said.  "  Don't  ye  cry, 
Mis5  De  Arthenay !  I  don't  know  what  I  did,  but  I 
didn't  go  to  do  it,  nohow." 

Marie  turned  and  looked  at  him,  and  smiled  through 
her  tears.  "  Dear  little  Petie  ! "  she  said,  stroking  the 
curly  head,  "you  done  nossing,  little  Petie.  It  was 
the  honger,  no  more  !  Oh,  no  more  ! "  she  caught  her 
breath,  but  choked  the  sob  back  bravely,  and  smiled 
again.  Something  woke  in  her  child  heart,  and  bade 


66  MARIE. 

her  not  sadden  the  heart  of  the  younger  child  with  a 
grief  which  was  not  his.  Tt  is  one  of  the  lessons  of 
life,  and  it  was  well  with  Marie  that  she  learned  it 
early. 

"Madame,  my  violon,"  she  resumed  after  a  pause, 
speaking  cheerfully,  and  wiping  her  eyes  with  her 
apron,  "  she  have  many  voices,  Petie  ;  tousand  voices, 
like  all  birds,  all  winds,  all  song  in  the  world ;  and 
she  have  an  angry  voice,  too,  deep  down,  what  make 
you  tr-remble  in  your  heart,  if  you  are  bad.  Bien  ! 
Sometime  Coquelicot,  he  been  bad,  very  bad.  He 
know  so  much,  that  make  him  able  for  the  bad,  see, 
like  for  the  good.  Yes  !  Sometime,  he  steal  the  sugar ; 
sometime  he  come  in  when  we  make  music,  and  make 
wiz  us  yells,  and  spoil  the  music ;  sometime  he  make 
the  horreebl'  faces  at  the  poppies  and  make  scream 
them  with  fear." 

"  Kin  poppies  scream  ? "  asked  Petie,  opening  great 
eyes  of  wonder.  "  My  !  ourn  can't.  We  Ve  got  big 
red  ones,  biggest  ever  you  see,  but  I  never  heerd  a 
sound  out  of  'em." 

Explanations  ensued,  and  a  digression  in  favour  of 
the  six  puppies,  whose  noses  were  softer  and  whose 
tails  were  funnier  than  anything  else  in  the  known 
world;  and  then  — 

"  So  Coquelicot,  he  come  and  he  sit  down  before  the 
poppies,  and  he  open '  his  mouth,  so !  *  here  Marie 
opened  her  pretty  mouth,  and  tried  to  look  like  a 
malicious  poodle,  — with  singular  lack  of  success ;  but 


MARIE.  67 

Petie  was    delighted,  and    clapped   his    hands    and 

laughed. 

"And  then,"  Marie  went  on,  "Lisette,  she  is  the 
poppies'  mother,  and  she  hear  them,  and  she  come 
wiz  yells,  too,  and  try  to  drive  Coquelicot,  but  he  take 
her  wiz  his  teeth  and  shake  her,  and  throw  her  away, 
and  go  on  to  make  faces,  and  all  is  horreebl'  noise,  to 
wake  deads.  So  Old  Billy  call  me,  and  I  come,  and  I 
go  softly  behind  Coquelicot,  and  down  I  put  me,  and 
Madame  speak  in  her  angry  voice  justly  in  Coquelicot's 
ear.  '  La  la !  tra  la  li  la  ! '  deep  down  like  so,  full  wiz 
angryness,  terreebl',  yes  !  And  Coquelicot  he  jump,  oh 
my  !  oh  my  !  never  he  could  jump  so  of  all  his  life. 
And  the  tail  bit-ween  his  legs,  and  there  that  he  run, 
run,  as  if  all  devils  run  after  him.  Yes,  funny,  Petie, 
vairy  funny ! "  She  laughed,  and  Petie  laughed  in 
violent,  noisy  peals,  as  children  love  to  do,  each  gust 
of  merriment  fanning  the  fire  for  another,  till  all 
control  is  lost,  and  the  little  one  drops  into  an  irre- 
pressible fit  of  the  "giggles."  So  they  sat  under  the 
pine-trees,  the  two  children,  and  laughed,  and  Marie 
forgot  the  hunger  at  her  heart ;  till  suddenly  she 
looked  and  saw  her  husband  standing  near,  leaning  on 
his  rake  and  gazing  at  her  with  grave,  uncomprehend- 
ing eyes.  Then  the  laugh  froze  on  her  lips,  and  she 
rose  hastily,  with  the  little  timid  smile  which  was  all 
she  had  for  Jacques  (yet  he  was  hungry  too,  so  hungry ! 
and  knew  not  what  ailed  him  !)  and  went  to  meet 
him  ;  while  Petie  ran  away  through  the  grove,  as  fast 
as  his  little  legs  would  carrv  him. 


CHAPTEK  VIII. 

A  FLOWER   IN   THE   SNOW. 

THE  winter,  when  it  came,  was  hard  for  Marie 
She  had  never  known  severe  weather  before, 
and  this  season  it  was  bitter  cold.  People  shook  their 
heads,  and  said  that  old  times  had  come  again,  and  no 
mistake.  There  was  eager  pride  in  the  lowest  mercury, 
and  the  man  whose  thermometer  registered  thirty  de- 
grees below  zero  was  happier  than  he  who  could  boast 
but  of  twenty-five.  There  was  not  so  much  snow  as 
in  milder  seasons,  but  the  cold  held  without  breaking, 
week  after  week  :  clear  weather  ;  no  wind,  but  the  air 
taking  the  breath  from  the  dryness  of  it,  and  in  the 
evening  the  haze  hanging  blue  and  low  that  tells  of 
in  tensest  cold.  As  the  snow  fell,  it  remained.  The  drifts 
and  hollows  never  changed  their  shape,  as  in  a  soft  or 
a  windy  season,  but  seemed  fixed  as  they  were  for  all 
time.  Across  the  road  from  Jacques  De  Arthenay's 
house,  a  huge  drift  had  been  piled  by  the  first  snow- 
storm of  the  winter.  Nearly  as  high  as  the  house  it 
was,  and  its  top  combed  forward,  like  a  wave  ready 
to  break ;  and  in  the  blue  hollow  beneath  the  curling 
crest  was  the  likeness  of  a  great  face.  A  rock  cropped 
out,  and  ice  had  formed  upon  its  surface,  so  that  the 


MARIE.  69 

snow  fell  away  from  it.  The  explanation  was  simple 
enough :  Jacques  De  Arthenay,  coming  and  going  at 
his  work,  never  so  much  as  looked  at  it ;  but  to  Marie 
it  was  a  strange  and  a  dreadful  thing  to  see.  Night 
and  morning,  in  the  cold  blue  light  of  the  winter  moon 
and  the  bright  hard  glitter  of  the  winter  sun,  the  face 
was  always  there,  gazing  in  at  her  through  the  window, 
seeing  everything  she  did,  perhaps  —  who  could  tell  ?  — 
seeing  everything  she  thought  She  changed  her  seat 
and  drew  down  the  blind  that  faced  the  drift ;  yet  it  had 
a  strange  fascination  for  her  none  the  less,  and  many 
times  in  the  day  she  would  go  and  peep  through  the 
blind,  and  shiver,  and  then  come  away  moaning  in  a  lit- 
tle way  that  she  had  when  she  was  alone.  It  was  piti- 
ful to  see  how  she  shrank  from  the  cold,  —  the  tender 
creature  who  seemed  born  to  live  and  bloom  with  the 
flowers,  perhaps  to  wither  with  them.  Sometimes  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  could  not  bear  it,  as  if  she 
must  run  away  and  find  the  birds,  and  the  green  and 
•joyous  things  that  she  loved.  The  pines  were  always 
green,  it  is  true,  in  the  little  grove  across  the  way ;  but 
it  was  a  solemn  and  gloomy  green,  to  her  child's  mind, 
—  she  had  not  yet  learned  to  love  the  steadfast  pines. 
Sometimes  she  would  open  the  door  with  a  wild  thought 
of  flying  out,  of  flying  far  away,  as  the  birds  did,  and 
rejoining  them  in  southern  countries  where  the  sun 
was  warm,  and  not  a  fire  that  froze  while  it  lighted 
one.  So  cold !  so  cold !  But  when  she  stood  thus,  the 
little  wild  heart  beating  fiercely  in  her,  the  icy  blast 


70  MARIE. 

would  come  and  chill  her  into  quiet  again,  and  turn 
the  blood  thick,  so  that  it  ran  slower  in  her  veins ;  and 
she  would  think  of  the  leagues  and  leagues  of  pitiless 
snow  and  ice  that  lay  between  her  and  the  birds,  and 
would  close  the  door  again,  and  go  back  to  her  work 
with  that  little  weary  moan. 

Her  husband  was  very  kind  in  these  days ;  oh,  very 
kind  and  gentle.  He  kept  the  dark  moods  to  himself, 
if  they  came  upon  him,  and  tried  even  to  be  gay,  though 
he  did  not  know  how  to  set  about  it.  If  he  had  ever 
known  or  looked  at  a  child,  this  poor  man,  he  would 
have  done  better ;  but  it  was  not  a  thing  that  he  had 
ever  thought  of,  and  he  did  not  yet  know  that  Marie 
was  a  child.  Sometimes  when  she  saw  him  looking 
at  her  with  the  grave,  loving,  uncomprehending  look 
that  so  often  followed  her  as  she  moved  about,  she 
would  come  to  him  and  lay  her  head  against  his 
shoulder,  and  remain  quiet  so  for  many  minutes ;  but 
when  he  moved  to  stroke  her  dark  head,  and  say, 
"  What  is  it,  Mary  ?  what  troubles  you  ? "  she  could 
only  say  that  it  was  cold,  very  cold,  and  then  go  away 
again  about  her  work. 

Sometimes  an  anguish  would  seize  him,  when  he 
saw  how  pale  and  thin  she  grew,  and  he  would  send  for 
the  village  doctor,  and  beg  him  to  give  her  some  "  stuff  " 
that  would  make  her  plump  and  rosy  again ;  but  the 
good  man  shook  his  head,  and  said  she  needed  nothing, 
only  care  and  kindness,  —  kindness,  he  repeated,  with 
some  emphasis,  after  a  glance  at  De  Arthenay's  face, 


MARIE.  71 

and  good  food.  "  Cheerfulness,"  he  said,  buttoning  up 
his  fur  coat  under  his  chin,  — "  cheerfulness,  Mr.  De 
Arthenay,  and  plenty  of  good  things  to  eat.  That 's  all 
she  needs."  And  he  went  away  wondering  whether  the 
little  creature  would  pull  through  the  winter  or  not. 

And  Jacques  did  not  throw  the  food  into  the  fire  any 
more  ;  he  even  tried  to  think  about  it,  and  care  about  it. 
And  he  got  out  the  Farmer's  Almanac,  —  yes,  he  did,  — 
and  tried  reading  the  jokes  aloud,  to  see  if  they  would 
amuse  Mary ;  but  they  did  not  amuse  her  in  the  least, 
or  him  either,  so  that  was  given  up.  And  so  the  winter 
wore  on. 

It  had  to  end  sometime;  even  that  winter  could 
not  last  forever.  The  iron  grasp  relaxed:  fitfully 
at  first,  with  grim  clutches  and  snatches  at  its  prey, 
gripping  it  the  closer  because  it  knew  the  time  was 
near  when  all  power  would  go,  drop  off  like  a  gar- 
ment, melt  away  like  a  stream.  The  unchanging 
snow-forms  began  to  shift,  the  keen  outlines  wavered, 
grew  indistinct,  fell  into  ruin,  as  the  sun  grew  warm 
again,  and  sent  down  rays  that  were  no  longer  like 
lances  of  diamond.  The  glittering  face  in  the  hollow 
of  the  great  drift  lost  its  watchful  look,  softened, 
grew  dim  and  blurred;  one  morning  it  was  gone. 
That  day  Marie  sang  a  little  song,  the  first  she  had 
sung  through  all  the  long,  cruel  season.  She  drew 
up  the  blind  and  gazed  out;  she  wrapped  a  shawl 
round  her  head  and  went  and  stood  at  the  door, 
afraid  of  nothing  now,  not  even  thinking  of  making 


72  MARIE. 

those  tiresome  horns.  She  was  aware  of  something 
new  in  the  air  she  breathed.  It  was  still  cold,  but 
with  a  difference ;  there  was  a  breathing  as  of  life, 
where  all  had  been  dry,  cold  death.  There  was 
a  sense  of  awakening  everywhere ;  whispers  seemed 
to  come  and  go  in  the  tops  of  the  pine-trees,  telling 
of  coming  things,  of  songs  that  would  be  sung  in 
their  branches,  as  they  had  been  sung  before;  of 
blossoms  that  would  spring  at  their  feet,  brightening 
the  world  with  gold  and  white  and  crimson. 

Life !  life  stirring  and  waking  everywhere,  in  sky 
and  earth  ;  soft  clouds  sweeping  across  the  blue,  soften- 
ing its  cold  brightness,  dropping  rain  as  they  go; 
sap  creeping  through  the  ice-bound  stems,  slowly 
at  first,  then  running  freely,  bidding  the  tree  awake 
and  be  at  its  work,  push  out  the  velvet  pouch  that 
holds  the  yellow  catkin,  swell  and  polish  the  pointed 
leaf -buds:  life  working  silently  under  the  ground, 
brown  seeds  opening  their  leaves  to  make  way  for 
the  tender  shoot  that  shall  draw  nourishment  from 
them  and  push  its  way  on  and  up  while  they  die  con- 
tent, their  work  being  done ;  roots  creeping  here  and 
there,  threading  their  way  through  the  earth,  soften- 
ing, loosening,  sucking  up  moisture  and  sending  it 
aloft  to  carry  on  the  great  work,  —  life  everywhere, 
pulsing  in  silent  throbs,  the  heart-beats  of  Nature; 
till  at  last  the  time  is  ripe,  the  miracle  is  prepared, 

and 

"In  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins." 


MARIE.  73 

Marie  too,  the  child-woman,  standing  in  her  door- 
way, felt  the  thrill  of  new  life;  heard  whispers  of 
joy,  but  knew  not  what  they  meant;  saw  a  radi- 
ance in  the  air  that  was  not  all  sunlight;  was  con- 
scious of  a  warmth  at  her  heart  which  she  had 
never  known  in  her  merriest  days.  What  did  it 
all  mean?  Nay,  she  could  not  tell,  she  was  not 
yet  awake.  She  thought  of  her  friend,  of  the  silent 
voice  that  had  spoken  so  often  and  so  sweetly  to  her, 
and  the  desire  grew  strong  upon  her.  If  she  died 
for  it,  she  must  play  once  more  on  her  violin. 

There  came  a  day  in  spring  when  the  desire 
mastered  the  fear  that  was  in  her.  It  was  a 
perfect  afternoon,  the  air  a-lilt  with  bird-songs,  and 
full  of  the  perfume  of  early  flowers.  Her  husband 
was  ploughing  in  a  distant  field,  and  surely  would 
not  return  for  an  hour  or  two;  what  might  one  not 
do  in  an  hour?  She  called  her  little  friend,  Petie, 
who  was  hovering  about  the  door,  watching  for  her. 
Quickly,  with  fluttering  breath,  she  told  him  what  she 
meant  to  do,  bade  him  be  brave  and  fear  nothing; 
locked  the  door,  drew  down  the  blinds,  and  closed  the 
heavy  wooden  shutters ;  turned  to  the  four  corners 
of  the  room,  bowing  to  each  corner,  as  she  muttered 
some  words  under  her  breath  ;  and  then,  catching  the 
child's  hand  in  hers,  began  swiftly  and  lightly  to 
mount  the  attic  stairs. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

MADAME. 

AT  first  nothing  at  all  was  to  be  seen  in  the  attic, 
and  the  two  adventurers  thought  themselves  in 
total  darkness ;  gradually,  however,  their  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  dim  light,  and  they  found  them- 
selves in  a  very  strange  place.  It  was  low,  so  low 
that  Marie  could  not  stand  upright  save  in  the  middle. 
The  great  beams  sloped  down  to  the  floor,  and  were 
all  black  and  cobwebby,  with  bits  of  rope  hanging 
here  and  there.  The  only  windows  were  two  little 
things  like  slits  in  the  wall,  close  by  the  floor ;  long, 
dusty  sunbeams  came  through  them,  like  bright  point- 
ing fingers,  and  their  light  showed  that  only  part  of 
the  space  was  boarded  over,  the  rest  being  merely 
beams  and  joists,  with  black  pits  (as  they  seemed  to 
Petie,  and  indeed  to  Marie  too),  yawning  between, 
going  down  to  the  centre  of  the  earth,  as  like  as  not, 
where  the  "  dragons  and  all  deeps  "  were.  Petie  thought 
it  a  terrible  place,  and  was  sure  there  must  be  bats 
there.  Marie  had  told  him  that  bats  were  the  young 
of  devils  ;  she  had  seen  pictures  of  them  in  the  Black 
Bible ;  and  indeed,  when  one  thought  of  their  appear- 


MARTS.  75 

ance,  what  else  could  they  be  ?  He  clung  to  her  neck, 
almost  choking  her ;  but  she  quieted  him,  and  told  him 
there  was  nothing  —  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  —  at  least 
—  well,  they  would  not  talk  of  that  now.  She  was  going 
to  show  him  something,  the  best  thing  in  the  world, 
her  friend,  who  should  be  his  friend  too.  Her  talk 
seemed  quite  wild,  and  frightened  the  child  all  the 
more ;  but  he  was  afraid  to  speak,  for  fear  the  bats 
should  hear  him,  and  when  she  set  him  down  on  an 
old  chest  that  stood  under  a  great  overhanging  rafter, 
and  bade  him  sit  very  still,  he  had  no  thought  of 
moving. 

Marie  began  to  quest  about,  seeking  for  something. 
She  went  stooping  here  and  there,  peeping  into  the 
corners,  feeling  with  hands  and  feet  when  there  was 
no  light  to  see  by.  Finding  nothing,  she  began  to 
sob  and  cry  under  her  breath,  stopping  now  and  then 
to  wring  her  hands,  then  beginning  again.  Not  find- 
ing under  foot  what  she  sought,  she  began  to  look 
above,  and  to  run  her  hands  along  the  rafters,  thick 
with  dust.  She  hated  dust  in  general,  having  an 
exquisite  sense  of  neatness ;  but  she  never  seemed  to 
think  of  it  now,  nor  to  heed  how  it  came  powdering 
down,  covering  both  her  and  the  child  with  a  grey 
cloud.  It  got  into  Petie's  eyes  and  mouth,  and  he 
was  rubbing  and  choking,  when  suddenly  he  heard 
Marie  cry  out  loud  and  clear.  He  had  heard  such  a 
cry  once  before,  when  he  had  been  lost  in  the  woods, 
and  after  a  long  day's  search  had  been  found  and  brought 


76  MARIE. 

back  to  his  mother.  When  she  saw  him  in  his  father's 
arms,  his  mother  had  cried  out,  and  he,  baby  though 
he  was  at  the  time,  had  never  forgotten  the  sound, 
though  mother  and  father  were  now  dead  and  gone, 
and  he  lived  with  the  deaf  great-aunt  who  did  not 
notice  much  whether  he  was  lost  or  not.  Such  a  cry 
now  rang  through  the  stillness  of  the  garret ;  and  the 
echoes  woke  with  it,  and  went  rumbling  along  under  the 
great  rafters,  and  the  child  fancied  he  heard  something 
else,  a  sound  as  if  a  living  creature  started  and  moved, 
somewhere  in  the  deep  shadow.  He  looked,  clearing 
the  dust  from  his  eyes.  Marie  had  something  in  her 
arms,  a  long  thing  like  a  box,  all  white  with  dust,  and 
she  was  hugging  it  close  to  her  breast,  and  crying  over 
it,  and  talking  to  it.  Petie  sat  and  stared,  and  the 
dust  sifted  into  his  open  mouth  and  made  him  choke 
again.  Then  Marie  sat  down  with  the  dusty  thing 
in  her  lap,  and  Petie  saw  that  it  was  indeed  a  box, 
and  that  she  opened  it,  and  took  something  out.  A 
fiddle  !  Petie  knew  a  fiddle  well  enough,  though  no 
such  thing  was  allowed  in  the  village  ;  but  he  had 
never  seen  a  fiddle  treated  in  this  manner.  She  looked 
it  all  over,  as  a  mother  looks  her  child  o\er  at  night, 
when  she  takes  off  his  little  shirt  and  turns  him  round 
in  the  firelight,  to  see  if  he  has  had  any  bumps  01 
bruises  through  the  day.  If  she  finds  a  bruise  or  a 
scratch,  she  kisses  it,  and  tells  the  child  that  the 
naughty  old  earth  shall  not  hit  him  again,  or  seine 
such  nonsense  ;  and  now  Marie  was  kissing  this  fiddle 


MARIE.  77 

and  crying  over  it  and  asking  it  questions,  how  was  it, 
and  had  it  forgotten  her ;  and  saying  over  and  over  again, 
"II  y  a  long  temps  que  je  t'aime  !  II  y  a  long 
temps  ! " 

Petie  sat  mazed,  not  knowing  what  to  think,  and 
wondering  whether  his  friend  had  lost  her  wits  all  in 
a  moment.  Suddenly  Marie  looked  up  and  saw  his 
little  puzzled  face,  looking  pale  and  strange  in  the  dim 
light.  She  kissed  her  hand  to  him  and  laughed,  but 
made  no  other  motion. 

"  Have  no  fear,  little  Petie ! "  she  cried  joyously. 
"  Thou  art  afraid,  thou,  of  Madame  ?  Ah,  that  must 
never  be  !  This  is  Madame,  my  friend,  who  shall  be 
thy  friend  too,  why  not  ?  II  y  along  temps  que  je  1'aime, 
long  temps  que  je  ne  1'ai  pas  vu !  Listen  then,  little 
Petie,  and  she  shall  speak  to  you,  the  beautiful  lady." 

With  that  she  laid  the  bow  across  the  strings,  and 
began  to  play.  It  was  something  to  hear  Marie's 
playing,  she  knew  that  well  enough ;  the  picture  was 
worth  seeing,  too,  had  there  been  any  there  to  see. 

Was  there  any  one  ? 

The  low,  dark  place,  with  the  yellow  fingers  of  light 
pointing  across  the  floor ;  the  cobwebs  and  bits  of  rope 
hanging  thick  from  the  rafters;  the  old  chairs  and 
pieces  of  rubbish  starting  out  of  the  blackness  in  the 
corners,  as  if  the  music  had  called  them  into  life ; 
the  little  child  huddled  up  on  the  great  chest,  with 
pale  cheeks  and  wide  eyes,  and  in  the  middle  the  other 
child,  the  tall  one  with  the  dark  bright  eyes,  standing 


78  MARIE. 

upright  under  the  pitch  of  the  roof,  playing  and  singing, 
with  a  look  as  if  she  were  in  heaven,  no  less. 

It  was  a  little  French  song  that  she  was  singing,  one 
that  was  always  in  her  heart,  but  that  Petie  had  never 
heard  her  sing  till  now.  "As  I  went  walking,  walk- 
ing"—  so  it  began  — 

"  As  I  went  walking,  walking, 
Beside  the  fountain  clear, 
Its  waves  they  were  so  lovely, 
1  bathed  myself  e'en  there. 
'T  is  long  and  long  I  have  loved  thee ; 
I  '11  ne'er  forget  thee  more." 

So  she  sang  and  played,  with  heaven  in  her  heart.  She 
forgot  the  dust  and  grimness  around  her ;  the  air  felt 
soft  and  sweet,  full  of  spring  voices,  spring  airs.  The 
friend  that  she  loved  was  telling  her  wondrous  things, 
speaking  of  new  joys  that  were  coming  to  her,  new  and 
lovely  worlds  that  were  opening  before  her.  Life  was 
only  beginning,  was  it  ?  She  had  been  in  the  ante-cham- 
ber only,  all  this  time,  and  now  she  was  to  be  led 
within  a  white  portal,  into  a  palace  of  joy,  whose 
existence  she  had  hardly  guessed  at.  And  he  was  to  go 
with  her,  he,  the  grave,  kind  husband  whom  she  had 
never  understood,  but  who  loved  her,  oh,  yes,  loved  her 
far  better  than  she  deserved  !  Ah  !  and  was  it  possible 
that  she  too  would  find  courage  to  say  to  him,  to 
whisper  in  his  ear, 

"  H  y  a  long  temps  que  je  t'aime ! 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai  1  " 


79 

Suddenly,  like  a  blown  candle,  the  light  went  out. 
They  were  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  that  had  shone 
through  the  low  windows,  and  now  the  sun  had  set, 
and  what  had  been  dark  before  became  pit-black. 
Then  fear  took  the  two  children  by  the  throat.  Petie 
did  not  dare  to  move  or  cry ;  but  he  heard  Marie  sob- 
bing to  herself  in  the  dark,  as  she  felt  her  way  to  the 
shelf  where  the  fiddle  had  lain.  She  held  her  terror 
down,  taking  it  in  her  teeth  as  it  were,  that  it  might 
abate  no  jot  of  her  care  for  the  beloved  instrument. 
Tenderly  she  held  it  in  her  arms,  carefully  she  laid  it 
back  in  its  place,  making  sure  that  it  lay  close  and 
firm,  and  not  too  near  the  edge ;  but  when  that  was 
done,  she  sprang  at  the  child  like  a  mad  creature,  and 
caught  him  in  her  arms.  Just  then  something  moved, 
or  seemed  to  move,  in  a  far  corner.  Nothing  could  be 
seen  through  the  thick  darkness,  but  there  was  a 
sound  as  of  a  foot  treading  in  the  thick  dust.  And 
—  hark  !  was  that  a  breath,  a  deep  sighing  breath, 
almost  a  groan  ? 

Uttering  a  wild  cry,  Marie  sprang  to  the  head  of 
the  stairs,  lost  her  footing,  and  the  two  went  tumbling 
down  together,  rolling  over  and  over  to  the  bottom. 
There  was  no  breath  left  in  them  to  speak  or  cry,  and 
it  seemed  only  one  heartbeat  before  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  kitchen  again,  Marie  sitting  on  the  floor 
by  the  fire,  rocking  Petie  in  her  arms.  The  fire  was 
bright  and  warm ;  an  open  fire,  with  the  old  crane 
hanging  over  it.  De  Arthenay  abhorred  cook-stoves 


80  MARIE. 

as  a  modern  abomination,  nor  would  Marie  have  known 
what  to  do  with  one  if  she  had  had  it. 

The  fire,  I  say,  was  so  bright  and  warm,  and  the 
kitchen  looked  so  homely  and  comfortable,  that  the 
two  terrified  creatures  could  have  kissed  the  blue 
dishes  on  the  dresser,  for  pure  joy  at  seeing  them  again. 
It  was  good,  good,  to  be  down  where  things  were 
light  and  alive.  The  sound  of  the  tea-kettle  —  Petie 
would  not  have  changed  it  for  all  the  fiddles  in  the 
world,  and  even  Marie  herself  found  it  a  more  satis- 
factory sound  at  this  moment  than  the  voice  of  her 
heart,  of  Madame.  And  the  cat  was  purring,  —  bless 
the  cat !  —  and  the  cheerful  warmth  folded  them  round 
and  round,  and  the  little  flames  leaped  and  danced  for 
joy  at  seeing  them  once  more  safe  and  sound,  away 
from  that  awful  prison ;  and  —  and  —  the  kitchen  was 
a  very  pleasant  place. 

When  they  had  recovered  a  little,  Marie  told  Petie 
that  what  they  had  heard  was  a  loup-garou.  She  had 
always  known  that  there  was  one  in  the  attic,  she 
said ;  it  stood  to  reason  that  such  a  place  was  not  for 
nothing ;  that  was  one  reason  why  she  had  never 
dared  to  seek  her  friend,  Madame,  before.  There  v;3re 
other  reasons,  yes !  but  that  was  one.  What  was  a 
loup-garou  ?  oh,  well,  it  was  the  most  terrible  thing 
in  the  world.  Sometimes  it  was  a  wolf,  and  sometimes 
it  was  a  man,  or  a  woman  either,  whichever  it  felt 
like  in  its  wicked  heart.  And  always  it  could  take 
your  heart  out,  and  then  you  died,  because  you  could 


MARIE.  SI 

not  breathe  without  your  heart.  But  it  was  well 
known  (and  here  she  became  very  impressive,  lifting 
her  finger,  and  gazing  at  the  little  boy  with  eyes  as 
wide  as  his  own),  it  was  well-known  that  the  loup- 
garou  had  no  power  over  a  Christian  except  in  the 
dark. 

"You  heard  for  yourself,"  she  cried,  taking  the 
child's  hands  in  hers,  "you  heard  for  yourself  how 
the  moment  the  light  went  out  he  stirred  in  his 
corner,  the  evil  beast.  But  when  the  good  sun  shine. 
he  touch  not  anybodies,  Ah !  he  is  a  son  of  the 
devil,  do  you  understand,  little  Petie?  But  have 
no  fear!  He  cannot  come  out  of  his  den,  for  I  have 
make  crosses  on  the  step,  yes,  before  I  go  up,  three 
days  ago.  And  even  if  he  could,  even  if  there-up 
he  had  come  at  us"  (she  shuddered,  but  went  on 
bravely),  "  I  have  a  charm,  yes,  a  charm  that  would 
must  fright  him  away.  Listen,  Petie !  But  thou 
must  breathe  it  never,  never,  not  to  think  of  it  even 
unless  thou  see  a  loup-garou  or  a  devil  or  a  bat, 
for  they  are  all  the  same,  of  different  age.  He  too 
strong,  too  strong,  the  charm,  to  use  for  little  thing. 
God  forbid!  There  was  a  woman  who  said  it  once 
because  her  hen  died,  and  —  whisper,  Petie  —  they 
find  her  in  the  morning  choke  dead,  wiz  the  Bible 
stuff  in  her  mouth.  Hush  !  say  not  anything !  Listen 
only,  and  I  tell  it!" 

And  stooping  low,  with  many  a  fearful  glance 
around  her,  she  repeated  the  following  words :  — 


82  MA  RIB. 

"White  Pater-noster,  Saint  Peter's  brother, 
What  hast  thou  in  the  left  hand? 

White-Book  leaves  1 
What  hast  thou  in  the  right  hand? 

Heaven-gate  keys ! 

Open  Heaven-gate,  and  steek  Hell-gate. 
White  Pater-noster,  amen  !  " 

It  was  in  old  French  that  she  said  the  words,  French 
that  was  old  in  Saint  Louis'  time,  and  Petie  naturally 
understood  no  word  of  it,  but  all  the  same  the  sound 
of  it  felt  cold  in  his  back.  In  a  terrified  whisper 
he  asked  Marie  what  it  meant.  She  shook  her 
head  a  great  many  times,  and  said  "  Hush ! "  doubting 
the  propriety  of  telling  the  awful  meaning  to  a  young 
child.  In  the  end  the  desire  of  imparting  knowledge 
conquered,  and  she  told  Petie  that  the  White  Book 
was  the  Bible,  the  right  kind  of  Bible,  such  as  they 
had  in  her  country.  Here  the  Bible  was  black  (and 
she  glanced  over  at  the  corner  where  the  great  book 
lay,  covered  with  a  red  cloth,  as  she  always  kept 
it  when  her  husband  was  not  in  the  house),  —  black 
like  the  attic  after  the  light  went  out,  and  that  was 
why  there  were  so  many  devils  in  it,  and  bats,  and 
loup-garous,  and  other  dreadful  things.  Pater-noster 
was  Saint  Peter's  brother,  and  they  both  lived  in 
Eome ;  one  had  the  keys  of  Heaven,  the  other  of  Hell. 
That  was  all  that  it  was  proper  for  Petie  to  know 
at  his  age;  indeed  it  may  reasonably  be  doubted 
whether  Marie  herself  knew  any  more. 

They  both  felt  better  after  the  charm  was  said,  and 


MARIE.  83 

presently  Marie  got  up  and  opened  the  shutters,  and 
let  the  evening  light  stream  into  the  room.  Petie 
began  to  wonder  if  it  was  all  a  dream ;  at  least,  to 
play  that  he  wondered,  though  in  his  heart  he  knew 
better.  As  if  by  common  consent  both  sat  with  their 
backs  turned  to  the  stairs ;  and  now  they  began  to 
talk  about  other  things,  —  pleasant  things,  —  the  new 
kittens,  and  what  they  should  be  named,  and  whether 
it  would  be  necessary  to  drown  any  of  them.  It  was 
decided  that  one  should  be  called  Coquelicot,  and 
another  Lisette.  Petie  suggested  that  they  should 
name  one  Fiddle ;  he  was  rather  stupid,  Petie,  though 
he  meant  well.  Marie  cried  out,  with  a  little  con- 
traction of  the  brows  that  might  have  frightened 
Petie,  if  he  had  known  enough ;  but  then  she  smiled 
again,  and  patted  his  head,  and  told  him  that  perhaps 
in  a  little  few  minutes  now  he  might  run  away  home, 
for  it  was  time  to  get  supper.  But  not  till  he  had 
had  a  don't,  or  two  three  don'ts.  And  —  and  Petie 
knew,  of  course,  that  these  things  must  not  speak 
themselves,  not  even  to  whisper  in  the  night,  for  there 
was  no  knowing  —  no  knowing  —  there  were  strange 
things  in  the  world,  and  Petie  might  as  well  know  it 
when  he  was  young,  since  that  might  avoid  trouble  in 
later  times. 


CHAPTER  X. 

DE  ARTHENAY'S  VIGIL. 

WAS  it  a  loup-garou  in  the  attic  ?  was  it  a  loup- 
garou  that  drew  that  long,  sighing  breath,  as 
of  a  soul  in  pain ;  was  it  a  loup-garou  that  now 
groped  its  way  to  the  other  staircase,  that  which  led 
up  from  the  woodshed,  pausing  now  and  then,  and 
going  blindly,  and  breathing  still  heavily  and  slow  ? 

De  Arthenay  had  come  up  to  the  attic  in  search  of 
something,  tools,  maybe,  or  seeds,  or  the  like,  for 
many  odd  things  were  stowed  away  under  the  over- 
hanging rafters.  He  heard  steps,  and  stood  still, 
knowing  that  it  must  be  his  wife  who  was  coming  up, 
and  thinking  to  have  pleasure  just  by  watching  her 
as  she  went  on  some  little  household  errand,  such  as 
brought  himself.  She  would  know  nothing  of  his 
presence,  and  so  she  would  be  free,  unrestrained  by 
any  shyness  or  —  or  fear ;  if  it  was  fear.  So  he  had 
stood  in  his  dark  corner,  and  had  seen  little,  indeed, 
but  heard  all ;  and  it  was  a  wild  and  a  miserable  man 
t.hat  crept  down  the  narrow  stairway  and  out  into  the 
fresh  air. 

He  did  not  know  where  he  was  going.  He  wandered 
on  and  on,  hearing  always  that  sound  in  his  ears,  the 


MARIE.  85 

soft,  sweet  tones  of  the  accursed  instrument  that  was 
wiling  his  wife,  his  own,  his  beloved,  to  her  destruc- 
tion. The  child,  too,  how  would  it  be  for  him  ?  But 
the  child  was  a  smaller  matter.  Perhaps,  —  who 
knows?  a  child  can  live  down  sin.  But  Mary,  whom 
he  fancied  saved,  cured,  the  evil  thing  rooted  out  of 
her  heart  and  remembrance  t 

Mary  !  Mary  !  He  kept  saying  her  name  over  and 
over  to  himself,  sometimes  aloud,  in  a  passion  of  re- 
proach, sometimes  softly,  broodingly,  with  love  and 
pathos  unutterable.  What  power  there  was  in  that 
wicked  voice  !  He  had  never  rightly  heard  it  before, 
never,  save  that  instant  when  she  stood  playing  in  the 
village  street,  and  he  saw  her  for  a  moment  and  loved 
her  forever.  Oh,  he  had  heard,  to  be  sure,  this  or  that 
strolling  fiddler,  —  godless,  tippling  wretches,  who 
rarely  came  to  the  village,  and  never  set  foot  there 
twice,  he  thought  with  pride.  But  this,  this  was  dif- 
ferent !  What  power !  what  sweetness,  filling  his  heart 
with  rapture  even  while  his  spirit  cried  out  against  it ! 
What  voices,  entreating,  commanding,  uplifting ! 

Nay,  what  was  he  saying  ?  and  who  did  not  know 
jhat  Satan  could  put  on  an  angel's  look  when  it  pleased 
him?  and  if  a  look,  why  not  a  voice?  When  had  a 
fiddle  played  godly  tunes,  chant  or  psalm  ?  when  did  it 
do  aught  else  but  tempt  the  foolish  to  their  folly,  the 
wicked  to  their  iniquity  ? 

Mary  1  Mary  !  How  lovely  she  was,  in  the  faint 
gle&ms  of  light  that  fell  about  her,  there  in  the  dim 


86  MARIE. 

old  attic!  He  felt  her  beauty,  almost,  more  than 
he  saw  it.  And  all  this  year,  while  he  had  thought 
her  growing  in  grace,  silently,  indeed,  but  he  hoped 
truly,  she  had  been  hankering  for  the  forbidden  thing, 
had  been  planning  deceit  in  her  heart,  and  had  led 
away  the  innocent  child  to  follow  unrighteousness 
with  her.  He  would  go  back,  and  do  what  he  should 
have  done  a  year  ago,  —  what  he  would  have  done, 
had  he  not  yielded  to  the  foolish  talk  of  a  foolish 
woman.  He  would  go  back,  and  burn  the  fiddle, 
and  silence  forever  that  sweet,  insidious  music,  with 
its  wicked  murmurs  that  stole  into  a  man's  heart 
—  even  a  man's,  and  one  who  knew  the  evil,  and  ab- 
horred it.  The  smoke  of  it  once  gone  up  to  heaven, 
there  would  be  an  end.  He  should  have  his  wife 
again,  his  own,  and  nothing  should  come  between 
them  more.  Yes,  he  would  go  back,  in  a  little  while, 
as  soon  as  those  sounds  had  died  away  from  his  ears. 
What  was  the  song  she  sung  there  ? 

"  *T  is  long  and  long  I  have  loved  thee! 
I  '11  ne'er  forget  thee  more." 

She  would  forget  it,  though,  surely,  surely,  when  it  was 
gone,  breathed  out  in  flame  and  ashes :  when  he  could 
say  to  her,  "  There  is  no  more  any  such  thing  in  my 
house  and  yours,  Mary,  Mary." 

How  tenderly  he  would  tell  her,  though  !  It  would 
hurt,  yes  !  but  not  so  much  as  her  look  would  hurt  him 
when  he  told  her.  Ah,  she  loved  the  wooden  thing 
best !  He  was  dumb,  and  it  spoke  to  her  in  a  thousand 


MARIE.  87 

tones  !  Even  he  had  understood  some  of  them.  There 
was  one  note  that  was  like  his  mother's  voice  when 
she  lifted  it  up  in  the  hymn  she  loved  best,  —  his 
gentle  mother,  dead  so  long,  so  long  ago.  She  —  why, 
she  loved  music ;  he  had  forgotten  that.  But  only 
psalms,  only  godly  hymns,  never  anything  else. 

What  devil  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  She  never  heard 
anything  else.  She  would  have  loved  this  too,  this  too, 
if  she  had  had  the  chance,  if  she  had  heard  Mary  play  ! " 
He  put  his  hands  to  his  ears,  and  almost  ran  on.  Where 
was  he  going  ?  He  did  not  ask,  did  not  think.  He  only 
knew  that  it  was  a  relief  to  be  walking,  to  get  farther 
and  farther  away  from  what  he  loved  and  fain  would 
cherish,  from  what  he  hated  and  would  fain  destroy. 

The  grass  grew  long  and  rank  under  his  feet ;  he 
stumbled,  and  paused  for  a  moment,  out  of  breath,  to 
look  about  him.  He  was  in  the  old  bury  ing-ground, 
the  grey  stones  rearing  their  heads  to  peer  at  him  as 
he  hurried  on.  Ah,  there  was  one  stone  here  that 
belonged  to  him.  He  had  not  been  in  the  -place  since 
he  was  a  child;  he  cared  nothing  about  the  dead 
of  long  ago :  but  now  the  memory  of  it  all  came  back 
upon  him,  and  he  sought  and  found  the  grey  sunken 
stone,  and  pulled  away  the  grass  from  it,  and  read 
the  legend  with  eyes  that  scarcely  saw  what  they 

looked  at. 

"  D'Arthenay,  tenez  foi  1 " 

And  the  place  was  free  from  moss,  as  they  always 
said ;  the  rude  scratch,  as  of  a  sharp-pointed  instru- 


88  MARIE. 

ment.  Did  it  mean  anything  ?  He  dropped  beside  it 
for  a  minute,  and  studied  the  stone ;  then  rose  and 
went  his  way  again,  still  wandering  on  and  on,  he  knew 
not  whither. 

Darkness  came,  and  he  was  in  the  woods,  stumbling 
here  and  there,  driven  as  by  a  strong  wind,  scorched 
as  by  a  flame.  At  last  he  sank  down  at  the  foot  of 
a  great  oak-tree,  in  a  place  he  knew  well,  even  in  the 
dark :  he  could  go  no  farther. 

"  D'Arthenay,  tenez  foi ! " 

It  whispered  in  his  ears,  and  seemed  for  a  little  to 
drown  the  haunting  notes  of  the  violin.  He,  the  Cal- 
vinist,  the  practical  man,  who  believed  in  two  things 
outside  the  visible  world,  a  great  hell  and  a  small 
heaven,  now  felt  spirits  about  him,  saw  visions  that 
were  not  of  this  life.  His  ancestor,  the  Huguenot, 
stood  before  him,  in  cloak  and  band ;  in  one  hand  a 
Bible,  in  the  other  a  drawn  dagger.  His  dark  eyes 
pierced  like  a  sword-thrust;  his  lips  moved;  and 
though  no  sound  came,  Jacques  knew  the  words  they 
framed. 

"  Tenez  foi !  Keep  the  faith  that  I  brought  across 
the  sea,  leaving  for  it  fair  fields  and  vineyards,  castle 
and  tower  and  town.  Keep  the  faith  for  which  I  bled, 
for  which  I  died  here  in  the  wilderness,  leaving  only 
these  barren  acres,  and  the  stone  that  bears  my  last 
word,  my  message  to  those  who  should  come  after 
me.  Keep  the  faith  for  which  my  fair  wife  faded  and 
died,  far  away  from  home  and  friends  !  Let  no  piping 


MARIE.  89 

or  jigging  or  profane  sound  be  in  thy  house,  but  let  it 
be  the  house  of  fasting  and  of  prayer,  even  as  my 
house  was.  Keep  faith  !  If  thy  right  hand  offend 
thee,  cut  it  off  and  cast  it  from  thee ! " 

Who  else  was  there,  —  what  gentle,  pallid  ghost,  with 
sad,  faint  eyes  ?  The  face  was  dim  and  shadowy,  for 
he  had  been  a  little  child  when  his  mother  died.  She 
was  speaking  too,  but  what  were  these  words  she  was 
saying  ?  "  Keep  faith,  my  son  !  ay  !  but  keep  it  with 
your  wife  too,  the  child  you  wedded  whether  she  would 
or  no,  and  from  whom  you  are  taking  the  joy  of  child- 
hood, the  light  of  youth.  Keep  faith  as  the  sun  keeps 
it,  as  the  summer  keeps  it,  not  as  winter  and  the 
night." 

What  did  that  mean  ?  keep  faith  with  her,  with  his 
wife  ?  how  else  should  he  do  it  but  by  saving  her  from 
the  wrath  to  come,  by  plucking  her  as  a  flower  out  of 
the  mire  ? 

"  What  shall  I  save  but  her  soul,  yea,  though  her 
body  perish  ? " 

He  spoke  out  in  his  trouble,  and  the  vision  seemed 
to  shrink  and  waver  under  his  gaze ;  but  the  faint 
voice  sighed  again,  —  or  was  it  only  the  wind  in  the 
pine-trees  ?  —  "  Care  thou  for  her  earthly  life,  her 
earthly  joy,  for  God  is  mindful  ol  her  sou] -r 

But  then  the  deeper  note  struck  in  again,  —  or  WAS 
it  only  a  stronger  gust,  that  bowed-  the  branches,  a«4 
murmured  through  all  the  airy  depths  above  hin?  ? 

"  Keep  the  faith  !     Thou  art  a  man,  and  wilt  thou 


90 

be  drawn  away  by  women,  of  whom  the  best  are  a 
stumbling-block  and  a  snare  for  the  feet  ?  Destroy 
the  evil  thing !  root  it  out  from  thy  house !  What  are 
joys  of  this  world,  that  we  should  think  of  them  ?  Do 
they  not  lead  to  destruction,  even  the  flowery  path  of 
it,  going  down  to  the  mouth  of  the  pit,  and  with  no 
way  leading  thence  ?  Who  is  the  woman  for  whose  sake 
thou  wilt  lose  thine  own  soul  ?  If  thy  right  eye  offend 
thee,  pluck  it  out ! " 

So  the  night  went  on,  and  the  voices,  or  the  wind, 
or  his  own  soul,  cried,  and  answered,  and  cried  again  ; 
and  no  peace  came. 

The  night  passed.  As  it  drew  to  a  close,  all  sound, 
all  motion,  died  away  ;  the  darkness  folded  him  close, 
like  a  mantle;  the  silence  pressed  upon  him  like 
hands  that  held  him  down.  Like  a  log  the  man  lay 
at  the  foot  of  the  great  tree,  and  his  soul  lay  dead 
within  him. 

At  last  a  change  came ;  or  did  he  sleep,  and  dream 
of  a  change  ?  A  faint  trembling  in  the  air,  a  faint 
rustling  that  lost  itself  almost  before  it  reached  the 
ear  It  was  gone,  and  all  was  still  once  more ;  yet 
with  a  difference.  The  darkness  lay  less  heavily :  one 
felt  that  it  hid  many  things,  instead  of  filling  the 
world  with  itself  alone. 

Hark !  the  murmur  again,  not  lost  this  time,  but 
coming  and  going,  lightly,  softly,  brushing  here  and 
there,  soft  dark  wings  fanning  the  air,  making  it  ever 
lighter,  thinner.  Gradually  the  veil  lifted;  things 


MARIE.  91 

stood  out,  black  against  black,  then  black  against 
grey  ;  straight  majesty  of  tree-trunks,  bending  lines 
of  bough  and  spray,  tender  grace  of  ferns. 

And  now,  what  is  this  ?  A  sound  from  the  trees 
themselves,  —  no  multitudinous  murmur  this  time, 
but  a  single  note,  small  and  clear  and  sweet,  break- 
ing like  a  golden  arrow  of  sound  through  the  cloudy 
depths. 

Chirp,  twitter  I  and  again  from  the  next  tree,  and  the 
next,  and  now  from  all  the  trees,  short  trials,  broken 
snatches,  and  at  last  the  full  chorus  of  song,  choir 
answering  to  choir,  the  morning  hymn  of  the  forest. 

Now,  in  the  very  tree  beneath  which  the  man  lay, 
Chrysostom,  the  thrush,  took  up  his  parable,  and 
preached  his  morning  sermon ;  and  if  it  had  been 
set  to  words,  they  might  have  been  something  like 
these  :  — 

"  Sing !  sing,  brothers,  sisters,  little  tender  ones  in 
the  nest !  Sing,  for  the  morning  is  come,  and  God 
has  made  us  another  day.  Sing!  for  praise  is  sweet, 
and  our  sweetest  notes  must  show  it  forth.  Song  is 
the  voice  that  God  has  given  us  to  tell  forth  His 
goodness,  to  speak  gladly  of  the  wondrous  things  He 
hath  made.  Sing,  brothers  and  sisters  !  be  joyful,  be  joy- 
ful in  the  Lord  !  all  sorrow  and  darkness  is  gone  away, 
away,  and  light  is  here,  and  morning,  and  the  world 
wakes  with  us  to  gladness  and  the  new  day.  Sing,  and 
let  your  songs  be  all  of  joy,  joy,  lest  there  be  in  the  wood 
any  sorrowing  creature,  who  might  go  sadly  through 


92  MARIE. 

the  day  for  want  of  a  voice  of  cheer,  to  tell  him  that 
God  is  love,  is  love.  Wake  from  thy  dream,  sad  heart, 
if  the  friendly  wood  hold  such  an  one  !  Sorrow  is  night, 
and  night  is  good,  for  rest,  and  for  seeing  of  many  stars, 
and  for  coolness  and  sweet  odours ;  but  now  awake, 
awake,  for  the  day  is  here,  and  the  sun  arises  in  his 
might,  —  the  sun,  whose  name  is  joy,  is  joy,  and  whose 
voice  is  praise.  Sing,  sing,  and  praise  the  Lord  !  " 

So  the  bird  sang,  praising  God,  and  the  other  birds, 
from  tree  and  shrub,  answered  as  best  they  might, 
each  with  his  song  of  praise;  and  the  man,  lying 
motionless  beneath  the  great  tree,  heard,  and  listened, 
and  understood. 

Still  he  lay  there,  with  wide  open  eyes,  while  the 
golden  morning  broke  over  him,  and  the  light  came 
sifting  down  through  the  leaves,  checkering  all  the 
ground  with  gold.  The  wood  now  glowed  with  colour, 
russet  and  green  and  brown,  wine-like  red  of  the  tree- 
trunks  where  the  sun  struck  aslant  on  them,  soft 
yellow  greens  where  the  young  ferns  uncurled  their 
downy  heads.  The  air  was  sweet,  sweet,  with  the 
smell  of  morning;  was  the  whole  world  new  since 
last  night? 

Suddenly  from  the  road  near  by  (for  he  had  gone 
round  in  a  circle,  and  the  wooded  hollow  where  he 
lay  was  out  of  sight  but  not  out  of  hearing  of  the 
country  road  which  skirted  the  woods  for  many  miles), 
from  the  road  near  by  came  the  sound  of  voices, — 
men's  voices,  which  fell  strange  and  harsh  on  his 


MARIE.  93 

cars,  open  for  the  first  time  to  the  music  of  the 
world,  and  still  ringing  with  the  morning  hymn  of 
joy.  What  were  these  harsh  voices  saying? 

"  They  think  she  '11  live  now  ? " 

"  Yes,  she  11  pull  through,  unless  she  frets  herself 
bad  again  about  Jacques.  Nobody  'd  heerd  a  word  of 
him  when  I  come  away." 

"  Been  out  all  night,  has  he  ? " 

"  Yes !  went  away  without  saying  anything  to  her 
or  anybody,  far  as  I  can  make  out.  Been  gone 
since  yesterday  afternoon,  and  some  say  — "  The 
voices  died  away,  and  then  the  footsteps,  and  silence 
fell  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XL 

VITA    NUOVA. 

DE  AETHENAY  never  knew  how  he  reached  home 
that  day.  The  spot  where  he  had  been  lying  was 
several  miles  from  the  white  cottage,  yet  he  was  con- 
scious of  no  time,  no  distance.  It  seemed  one  burning 
moment,  a  moment  never  to  be  forgotten  while  he 
lived,  till  he  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  outer 
stairway,  the  stair  that  led  to  the  attic.  She  might 
still  be  living,  and  he  would  not  go  to  her  without 
the  thing  she  craved,  the  thing  which  could  speak  to 
her  in  the  voice  she  understood. 

Again  a  moment  of  half-consciousness,  and  he  was 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  her  bedroom,  looking  in 
with  blind  eyes  of  dread.  What  should  he  see  ?  what 
still  form  might  break  the  outline  of  that  white  bed 
which  she  always  kept  so  smooth  and  trim  ? 

The  silence  cried  out  to  him  with  a  thousand  voices, 
threatening,  condemning,  blasting;  but  the  next  mo- 
ment it  was  broken. 

"Mon  ami!"  said  Marie.  The  words  were  faint, 
but  there  was  a  tone  in  them  that  had  never  been 
there  before.  "  Jacques,  mon  ami,  you  are  here !  You 
did  not  go  to  leave  me  ? " 


MARIE,  95 

The  mist  cleared  from  the  man's  eyes.  He  did  not 
see  Abby  Eock,  sitting  by  the  bed,  crying  with  joyful 
indignation ;  if  he  had  seen  her,  it  would  not  have 
been  in  the  least  strange  for  her  to  be  there.  He  saw 
nothing  —  the  world  held  nothing  —  but  the  face  that 
looked  at  him  from  the  pillow,  the  pale  face,  all  soft 
and  worn,  yet  full  of  light,  full  —  was  it  true,  or  was 
he  dreaming  in  the  wood  ?  — of  love,  of  joy. 

"  Come  in,  Jacques ! "  said  Abby,  wondering  at  the 
look  of  the  man.  "  Don't  make  a  noise,  but  come  in 
and  sit  down!" 

De  Arthenay  did  not  move,  but  held  out  the  violin 
in  both  hands  with  a  strange  gesture  of  submission. 

"  I  have  brought  it,  Mary ! "  he  said.  "  You  shall 
always  have  it  now.  I  —  I  have  learned  a  little  —  I 
know  a  little,  now,  of  what  it  means.  I  had  n't  under- 
standing before,  Mary.  I  meant  no  unkindness  to 
you." 

Abby  laughed  softly.  "  Jacques  De  Arthenay,  come 
here ! "  she  said.  "  What  do  you  suppose  Maree  's 
thinking  of  fiddles  now  ?  Come  here,  man  alive,  and 
see  your  boy ! " 

But  Marie  laid  one  hand  softly  on  the  violin,  as  it 
lay  on  the  bed  beside  her,  —  the  hand  that  was  not  pat- 
ting the  baby  ;  then  she  laid  it,  still  softly,  shyly,  on  her 
husband's  head  as  he  knelt  beside  her.  "Jacques, 
mon  ami,"  she  whispered,  "  you  are  good !  I  too  have 
learned.  I  was  a  child  always,  I  knew  nothing.  See 
now,  I  love  always  Madame,  my  friend,  and  she  is 


96  MARTS. 

mine ;  but  this,  this  is  yours  too,  and  mine  too,  our 
life,  our  own.  Jacques,  now  we  both  know,  and  God, 
He  tell  us !  See,  the  same  God,  only  we  did  not 
know  the  first  times.  Now,  always  we  know,  and 
not  forget !  not  forget ! " 

The  baby  woke  and  stirred.  The  tiny  hand  was 
outstretched  and  touched  its  father's  hand,  and  a  thrill 
ran  through  him  from  head  to  foot,  softening  the  hard 
grain,  melting,  changing  the  fibre  of  his  being.  The 
husk  that  in  those  lonely  hours  in  the  forest  had 
been  loosened,  broken,  now  fell  away  from  him,  and 
a  new  man  knelt  by  the  white  bed,  silent,  gazing  from 
child  to  wife  with  eyes  more  eloquent  than  any  words 
could  be.  The  baby's  hand  rested  in  his,  and  Marie 
laid  her  own  over  it ;  and  Abby  Eock  rose  and  went 
away,  closing  the  door  softly  after  her. 


THE   END, 


XC  50106 


